That man talking over his shoulder

 

from this week of December, 1979  (I was 35)

 

     That man talking over his shoulder

Do you feel the edge of the world?

Ever feel like you’ve crawled to the brink

fingers acute on the precipice

like you didn’t really choose to be there

moved along by the whack on your ass

the big broom and the sweep of time?

 

There you were crawling across the floor

moving from one bit of this to another

when you and the neighborhood

together were swept to the edge

Somewhere inside them

everybody knew about the big broom

 

Even your muscles knew

knew sooner or later hoping later

Then you were there

not expecting so many friends with you

and others calling back from over the edge

and you now with this new moment

 

Gonna let the next one catch you in the ass?

Everyday that man wandered in the woods

 

from this week in November, 1971  (I was 27)

 

Everyday that man wandered in the woods

and he watched all that happened there

but especially the leaves which fell in time

and broke brown upon the ground

He did not know what to think of this

Some leaves drifted others dove

That man watched while seated on a rock

Reasons are alien to my comprehension

he said to himself as he watched the fall

And each day that man wandered from the woods

with bare limbs and leaves left still behind

That Man’s Attitude

 

September 4, 1975  (I was 30)

 

         That Man’s Attitude

Frost’s person in the snow should

Have said to hell with keeping,

Caught there in impeccable mood

Between frozen promise and promising wood.

 

The dream called for sleeping,

The little horse made it clear-

Hard edge of light and shadow creeping,

Silent bell of awareness sweeping.

 

Better the seen than the seer,

said this looker through snow’s mirror

stretched at length to show what’s near

Through the blizzard to warmer fear.

That man didn’t take a jet

 

August 18, 2010  (I was 65)

 

That man didn’t take a jet

     nor any slower vehicle of flight

He didn’t board a cruise ship

     or any thing else that floats

He didn’t ride the rails nor any kind of road

     never dreamed of leaving

     couldn’t read a map

     wouldn’t believe the traveler’s tale

     any more than he believed the wind

He cared not where the ground sank

     not where the mountain rose

     stopped drinking before the well went dry

     didn’t want a piece of the pie

That man climbed his mountain

 

July 17, 1971 (I was 26)

 

That man climbed his mountain

with a prayer for a pack

and the peak rising in his eye.

He walked easily, rested where he sat.

On the first night he exhaled poison

resolved to be reborn every moment

and gravitated toward universal sleep.

 

Ascending winds of space cooled his feet,

rose with him up cold stones

to unconscious climbs,

each step exhaling past moment,

each moment a frozen blossom.

 

And as he breathed his sacred hum

under stars bursting from pulsing darkness,

the third day dawned on the summit

hot to melt his tingling skin.

Echoes of his roaring essence

entreated admission for his presence.

And as he viewed the peaks below

the mountain let him go,

finest powder with wind and snow.

That man invented the clever light

 

from this week in June, 1977  (I was 37)

 

That man invented the clever light

because he could not hear the wires sizzle

The lady danced because she liked

clothing trailing in the wind she made

Tough guy wrote books with and about 

shrapnel in his crotch

Paintings are painted of horses and violins

because they taste good to him

The caveman heaves a rock

Ponderous duck with broken foot

swims circles in the pond

The significant scare themselves out of it

That man will light it 

That lady danced it in a breeze

That pug put it in prose

That horse has splinters in his teeth

That primitive retreats hungry to the rocks

to learn a new technique

Within the dark crevice something crackles

Over his head the first bulb goes on

without a sound and weak as it was

anything not dark was bright

That man said to that youth

 

April 9, 2016  (I was 71)

 

That man said to that youth

Do not run into that wall

do not attempt to scale it

         Asked that youth Whose bones are those

Said that man Bones of other youth

         Builders in the village must know how

The wall was there long before the village

         Did you never try

Once taught me not how but to question why

Youth went one way that man another

That man sits every night

 

April 5, 1972  (I was 27)

 

That man sits every night

trying to find a reason or excuse

for yet another episode in the continuing saga

Days and dreams can be confused

       in this film I play

       a short man who goes to work at eight

       everyday like a long run of Hairy Ape

       but with helplessly aware characters

        

       in another flick I’m never sure

       of who I am or how I’m motivated

       but I have the highest ideals

       and people place me in positions

Every night that man looks

but can’t even figure out

what it was he did that day

and whether or not he did it alone

       people on tv     

       really know how to live

       and only the unimportant guys die

       also there are a lot of cartoons

      

       I always wanted to play someone creative

       like a musician or writer

       not biographical

       but really intelligent fiction

Some nights that man writes it all down

without analysis

until it becomes absurd

and he can go to bed

Spring Training in the Bush

 

March 12, 1974  (I was 29)

 

   Spring Training in the Bush

That man in Canada did not die

With the bayonet at his throat

He turned and ran weaponless

Sliding across the border like stealing second

We’ve been hitless ever since

Still we blame the stranded runner

Most of our hitters got drafted

Some signed heavy contracts

How many outs we got?

Still no score

Maybe we could’ve won with more like him

Bunt and run men

Give him the sign

In the end it don’t matter whether you struck out

Or whether you were thrown out at home

Finding the way strewn with stones

 

March 3, 2019  (I was 74)

 

Finding the way strewn with stones

that man fled lightly and quickly across them

Through a driving snowstorm he trod

upon the indentations of those gone before

reaffirming footsteps for those who follow

Across the rope bridge over the river

one bare foot carefully in front of the other

tried the resilience and influence of sway

At a crossroad chose without hesitation

between paths worn really about the same

knowing either led exactly where he was to go

Passing within a village or city he came to know

his destiny was not a destination

Immortal Intimation

 

January 28, 1969  (I was 24)

 

  Immortal Intimation

That man reacts

to the final alarm clock

 

rising upon his front legs,

iguana

 

glass eyed and neckless,

stops the bell with numb fingers

 

and shakes a Kafka dream

to drag his leather body out of the night.

Ocean ends

 

from this week in January, 1972  (I was 27)

 

Ocean ends

clutching sand

grasping rocks

Over neutral shells

that man walks

past stiff star

and fly-infested fish

He walks the fringe

The sea reaches

the mind reaches

The sponge dries

Slowly

sun fingers

fall from the horizon

Everyday that man wandered in the woods

 

from this week in November, 1971  (I was 27)

 

Everyday that man wandered in the woods

and he watched all that happened there

but especially the leaves which fell in time

and broke brown upon the ground

He did not know what to think of this

Some leaves drifted others dove

That man watched while seated on a rock

Reasons are alien to my comprehension

he said to himself as he watched the fall

And each day that man wandered from the woods

with bare limbs and leaves left still behind

That man is gone

 

September 16, 1971  (I was 26)

 

That man is gone

I shouldna let him go

He always talked of leaving

but he always walked so slow

Today I pace the chamber

never say his name

afraid that if he comes back

he’ll find me just the same

That Man’s Attitude

 

September 4, 1975  (I was 30)

 

         That Man’s Attitude

Frost’s person in the snow should

Have said to hell with keeping,

Caught there in impeccable mood

Between frozen promise and promising wood.

 

The dream called for sleeping,

The little horse made it clear-

Hard edge of light and shadow creeping,

Silent bell of awareness sweeping.

 

Better the seen than the seer,

Said this looker through snow’s mirror

Stretched at length to show what’s near

Through the blizzard to warmer fear.

That man didn’t take a jet

 

August 18, 2010  (I was 65)

 

That man didn’t take a jet

     nor any slower vehicle of flight

He didn’t board a cruise ship

     or any thing else that floats

He didn’t ride the rails nor any kind of road

     never dreamed of leaving

     couldn’t read a map

     wouldn’t believe the traveler’s tale

     any more than he believed the wind

He cared not where the ground sank

     not where the mountain rose

     stopped drinking before the well went dry

     didn’t want a piece of the pie

Silent Partner

from this week in August, 2008  (I was 63)

 

         Silent Partner

His presence is his participation

his email address is anonymous

He knows his opinions

would elicit embarrassed silence

That man tries to think of what to say

then not say it

measures that a small victory

a privilege not doing       

Keeps his irons out of any fire

he did not start

Sitting among those conversing

he can contemplate a coffee cup

on a table across the room

His consciousness refers to him

in the third person and last night

he dreamed he was too slow

to outrun a steamroller

That man climbed his mountain

July 17, 1971 (I was 26)

 

That man climbed his mountain

with a prayer for a pack

and the peak rising in his eye.

He walked easily, rested where he sat.

On the first night he exhaled poison

resolved to be reborn every moment

and gravitated toward universal sleep.

 

Ascending winds of space cooled his feet,

rose with him up cold stones

to unconscious climbs,

each step exhaling past moment,

each moment a frozen blossom.

 

And as he breathed his sacred hum

under stars bursting from pulsing darkness,

the third day dawned on the summit

hot to melt his tingling skin.

Echoes of his roaring essence

entreated admission for his presence.

And as he viewed the peaks below

the mountain let him go,

finest powder with wind and snow.

That man manipulates Maya

July 6, 1971  (I was 26)

 

That man manipulates Maya,

melts mistakes into his father’s generation,

makes his moment diminutive

by beginning today, tomorrow’s glory

or celebrating it’s promise

“This is the first day

of the rest of my life!”

 

Future paths are easily focused,

perspectives lay themselves out like blueprints.

The problem with illusion

has always been its lack of confusion.

From Lot to Dylan the advice is the same,

but that man doesn’t like being here

because he can’t remember how he came.

What are these strange gifts

from this week in June, 1972 (I was 27)

What are these strange gifts

that man leaves behind

as conspicuous as silver bullets?

Most are tickets to a Magic Show

which does not exist except it seems

in the memories of those who have been there.

Other times he leaves poems

which read like invitations to a Magic Show.

He has always just ridden out of town.

But for these we’d never remember he’d been here.