Vermillion long before



and long before..
any of those invasions
like pain
or crashed windows
or lost hidden locked doors
from the steps of the diffused domestic clan..
which became my future memory
Listen:
she saw it all like through a train window
trained Catholic to be guilty in shame
beyond any proper tribal guilt and false
like gods of not-men; gain, loss pity
the envy of men to trees and smoke and beauty
when all she needed was a twenty-gage
or a hero like me-Da, with some Texaco-gas
to light flames of justice in the border-town
and the war-time foundations of clay
with no basements
and just let the blocks burn
to infinities. And the right kind of dreams
and metaphors
like a rough and tumble dog
to bite the thumb off of the scales
of some injustice
that had passed her on eventually
in proper form to heavens,
her birthplace of hope
and so add essence to the parish
and the saint of Guadeloupe
or maybe you and I like gods
could have been there to tie coteries to trees
or just hang them like curses
or take the kisses of betrayal to whom
and who knows where
and make weapons of separations
between the essences of fallen natures
and the gods who find comfort there
but mum and dad and the reality
of their both anxious desire
To make mustard seeds of faith
and turn mountains of desire like Vermillion fire
on their ***** into the nearby rivers and lakes
could have made new born beauty
of entire landscapes
and cancelled differences between earths
and skies to proper impressions
but so this is what really happened:
she got knocked down and down and finally
she cracked in perfect halves like love
like my eggs for long after and before
and wine became church, for the bluegrass
and dandelions that Dad missed at midnight
the only time he had leisure to prune
or those false impressions may have been lain down
like me and Mum on the same grass
in the backyard on Prado,
the place looking at the seasons
inside the stars and sky
and then holding hand in innocence
for her late learned lessons
and her saying philosophy to me
and the number pi-infinity
that when squared like perpetuity
will ??? separate
and my mass, later became my name
from the prophet and crazy blind love
like brail lines in sand’s particulates
available in the moment
created right there and then
from our substance
and like catechisms in tongues,
useless without someone to interpret
or love’s lessons come lately, too late in general
to cover anyone or any multitude of past,
and any and other’s sins
like love found, lost and acted to purpose
but the saint’s sins..
listen:
sometimes as through glass
the world darkens to focus, diffused passion
where light seems the enemy
like charity
and if outside
green from lawns
reflects blue to eyes
and to the free will of the beloved
WHEN THE LIGHT FORMS BEGAN
THE light WAS dim AND pleasant
And eyes were full of the essence sand
And comfortable

And all roads led home

the found way pleasant to the touch
found water, the water again
lovely from the great wonder
the wonder that formed the fireflies and wisdom
the fireflies are in formation again
and John died
dad. 1980
in my arms, like I said before
dangling like participles
to the end of his will
the information was remembered
i never had a mic, a deck a board
too bad,
to put the sweet music of him
to proper form
instead:
listen;

remember,
and if you can’t remember,
imagine.
memory is bone deep
likened to a dream forgotten

ok
I was already 21. All ready
to go back home. Josie
was not on the hood of the car
with Dad and me. She was
there for the funeral.
his will left that day
and saw the grand display
the fireflies.
I told you before, he loved Virginia
the mum who gets the high candle
the one who raised me by hand of will
synonymous with me
symmetrical to the doings that Dad did
that he lived, breathed in me
that was mum’s will too
one flesh remember, listen..
imagine
and you and I, if we listen with right ears
to what’s left
and Dad died
and made the fireflies be born

the setting:
me and dad sitting on the hood of his car
a cigarette dangling in the marsh
we were camping
smoking. Right to the end that one
and Dad told me that he had a pain
an ache that wouldn’t spend itself in age
and lie a death, to the obvious passions
dead long since any rage, and Virginia

my mum was a lot to look at
long
dark
like black and silk and
silver with light
upon a screen she was in me
and the dreams of men as boys
are always of pretty-mum, mine was mine
mine was Mum
I’m sure
when she worked
at Champion Spark Plug after the war
at her wits-end,
that when she visited the legion
and the live soldiers there
that many sons dreamed of her
beauty
attrition
wealth
want
and bundles of late formed dreams
from steel monsters
war ships on seas
Her face was like angels singing to angels
like the sound of the sight of a cherub
who watching the gates of the city
takes time to sigh
and absolve vows for five simple senses
like Vermillion long before..

Mum wasn’t there either. I
asked Dad like before.
I asked him, “Did you love her?”
He said, “Yes, I never stopped.”
the woman:
who stole his eyes at birth.
like from dreams of her.
(Dad did dream).
he was standing as near a new birth
ready to play some game there
in the larger ballpark near his yard
waiting for the rain to start
to delay the inning
and Virginia stood silent in his dream of her
his imaginings, want, and faith
too red faced to speak
little dimples sixteen to the day
and him thirteen in a cotton outfit
pinstripe, like the ‘yanks
and leather hand catching the ball
and the girl, standing five feet into the dream
and the whole game disappeared
and he loved The Epiphany of Her
and held her like proper-pride
his Virginia.

no one ever arested gertuid stien
for being a language criminal
although she was arested once
for running out on a fast food bill
fast food was new then.
she mis-read fast for free.
tucked for tree
wound up in jail. true story
and im pretty sure also
she was sexless.
but fun at parties,
with that fat delirious
vocabulary
till you get her home.
if you know what i mean
one can only stand so much
and for it
get bit for ****,
finger for linger
mouth ecstatic
kiss on the lips
and goodnight
and ambiguous
for cun-a-linguest
if you know what i mean

city

a man died. and careful not to see
what watchers might-may be
he passed on something

liked, attitude

no, no small talk

i've been to a lot of funerals
who hasn't
it's serious business
this death. isn't it, and after?
used to scare the **** out of me.
wher's a relly good loosly tied oxford colon
when you need one.

never in
platitudes please
someone at least to drag me from the grave
did i mention i died
one to stand me up and say, "**** it boy,
stand up, grow back like a frog's limb
stand up in the pond
the premordial soup
and i'll do the rest".

never in attitude. make me a phrofit
change me. mind me, will and all

take care of me and never tell me i've died at all
ok i havn't then
just like that
you've conquered death

tell e things right
right in my ear like, "do it. it needs it.
you can do it and they too.

you're not for death.
you're not dying
but the m on your keyboard is weak

watch a dream of faith.
no simple home-spun wisdom this time.
the stuff of a amn who thinks he lives
but really it's angels, carrying him
to spare him the whole dream of dying
let alone death

to spare him the loss of the familiar
by providing the whole of life again
while ounting the iposible; soft cussion into
eternity, already there
entirely undeserved
watch: watch my ****. i'll be right back
just a minute.
only the kids understand
the fact is there is no ****
it's only the angels
helping me into eternity

let's turn these phrases once more
under the preasure of imagined life
and add just one whole city
a whole city watching one person's self
and property just to ease his way into eternity

because the concept
to anyone that eternity is forever and change
is frigtening to the sane,
and nonsense to the crazy
and arresting in it's starkness
so, let's, "spare" him
they say and devise a grand play
to prove life not to him, but themselves.
and when he leaves,
where are the artists?
in eternity
in ernist
watching


watch my ****
i'll be right back

So little girls
continue to tie their hair
in pretty little bows
and we **** them.
or do they seem not to be ours

I feel that for reasons
I can't explain
that I love people
**** me

We **** for blue jeans
and running shoes
and bottled water
and cable TV

What the ****.
We are a dis-grace.

We the people people
are becoming no people at all.

Every last one and me too.

In the west
Do us all a favor?

At least stop praying.
It smells bad.
We smell bad enough already
in the North Americas.

Jesus, don't pray.
It smells bad.
Who do we think we are?

"My prayers are with you?"
Seriously?, *******.
And your prayers too.

Keep having your carnival
for self-inflicted heart disease
and our fat and sugar
restricted diet.

Dear God,
******* us one and all.

let's think about it
the life and thinking
of Jesus Christ

We the people
are the source of authority
be careful, our opinion
is an action of divine inspiration

when killing or saving
we are being god
in voluntary action
to the world

let this mind
be in you too
if this god is god
I will go to hell

I hate him and I will put
myself there and it may be
that I may
save that indecisive god
from his own hell

these are the words
the prophets used to speak

What I believe

ii
truth is it's in my face.
Like flesh with its pinching-baby's-cheeks elusive quality
And I’ve been searching for it all my life.
Standing in a dream now with memories of Nadine,
and Kathy, and my sis,
them waiting for the instructs on the passion of boys.
Nadine said, "looook! This is how it's done!
Come here boy, close your eyes.”
But I never did. I stood looking shy
into that beauty that men vision,
the dream state of tongue-open
and a French kiss of a vision
Nadine went frost.
All frosty in gray flannel pajamas
like the stuff of grownup seeds
and grown men
like passion flowers
the midst of May,
the mist of Forget-me-nots.
I just opened wide for that.
I stood wild-in me, and smiled
smiled smiled at the wet of her.
She liked me. I was cool.
Kathy was the frightened one.
I was 10 she was 14.
Her kiss was like a hot
shower. Too wet from nervousness,
and too long.
My god, she never got it right.
Like long goodbyes,
she kissed me again and again.
I was a sad boy, all trimmed and proper
to then. I'd never kissed, touched dreams.
But the one, my mum, like truth.
I dreamed early, like a sick cow
giving birth.
Like my home
the barn was hot,
and too dry, too small
my legs cramped often.
my house was, "shh shhhh" quiet.
quiet like church-mice,
library prayers
A house of gables and suspended
In the middle by attrition, stimulation
I looked up; I was wet from sweat
a child's dream.
I was lying in a big bed. fluffy,
like hot rice-warm,
and the sweet smell of that illusive grace,
like candy, like ballroom dancing, like learning
to walk. you put him at an end and say,
"here baby, right here,
oh, right there, you can do it for mommy!"
And then, the waking. the waking in dreams
once, and once, and once, and...
Once I can't remember how long. it was before the falling
and failing and chastened chasing dreams,
chased, by who-knows
I woke, on soft rice, just before I was thinking:
loud hits, scores, long runs to second base dreams
ocean dreams of float-boats, invisible to eyes, and patience,
I'm going a long way
I woke just then on soft rice
and mum was there, not feeding other eggs,
Mum made me eggs all the time,
did I mention that?
she loved eggs and fed me cold.
it was my prayer that she feed me, even cold.
I laughed, woke laughing, and just looked up at
mum; no face, no eyes,
like canvas cover dreaming back
and a light, like the light now in my sky
centered in me with smiles.
How do I see smiles with no faces?
~ii
Kathy was like licorice.
forbidden in my house
because it stains teeth. just that.
forbidden, like child-dreams of adult love,
like the saliva taste,
better, bitter, just eat whole,
shells and all. appetite
like hers didn't come till late in life,
to be first in a kiss-line,
make wet like nobodies business
and just kiss. Nadine knew.
No people asking, no explaining,
she just smiled at Kathy, red-faced wonder,
******* sloping to an angle of me,
not pointing I was on the floor
anywhere, just firm like resolve
with a back just a little rounded in embarrassment
and Nadine laughed like hell.
and so did I.
She pointed to the door.
And I pointed with laughing eyes.
"Out boy, we're finished!"
What a wonderful dream. I can still taste it.
~ii
Kathy worked at a grocery store last time I saw.
and she smiled that big toothy smile, and said,
"Boy, you grew up!"
my god, her beauty haunts me,
her laughs and kisses
pulled me to those days.
i've never spoken these love-truths
out loud. lately grace nudges the mind of me.
Me, I just listen like this day
when beauty scars and scares me
like frightened joy
like truth flash flesh and light
like beauty coming from the sky.

and long before..
any of those invasions
like pain
or crashed windows
or lost hidden locked doors
from the steps of the diffused domestic clan..
which became my future memory
Listen:
she saw it all like through a train window
trained Catholic to be guilty in shame
beyond any proper tribal guilt and false
like gods of not-men; gain, loss pity
the envy of men to trees and smoke and beauty
when all she needed was a twenty-gage
or a hero like me-Da, with some Texaco-gas
to light flames of justice in the border-town
and the war-time foundations of clay
with no basements
and just let the blocks burn
to infinities.
And the right kind of dreams
and metaphors
like a rough and tumble dog
to bite the thumb off of the scales
of some injustice
that had passed her on eventually
in proper form to heavens,
her birthplace of hope
and so add essence to the parish
and the saint of Guadeloupe
or maybe you and I like gods
could have been there to tie coteries to trees
or just hang them like curses
or take the kisses of betrayal to whom
and who knows where
and make weapons of separations
between the essences of fallen natures
and the gods who find comfort there
but mum and dad and the reality
of their both anxious desire
To make mustard seeds of faith
and turn mountains of desire
like Vermillion fire
on their ***** into the nearby rivers and lakes
could have made new born beauty
of entire landscapes
and cancelled differences between earths
and skies to proper impressions
but so this is what really happened:
she got knocked down and down and finally
she cracked in perfect halves like love
like my eggs for long after and before
and wine became church, for the bluegrass
and dandelions that Dad missed at midnight
the only time he had leisure to prune
or those false impressions may have been lain down
like me and Mum on the same grass
in the backyard on Prado,
the place looking at the seasons
inside the stars and sky
and then holding hand in innocence
for her late learned lessons
and her saying philosophy to me
and the number pi-infinity
that when squared like perpetuity
will ᶰᵒᵗ separate
and my mass, later became my name
from the prophet and crazy blind love
like brail lines in sand’s particulates
available in the moment
created right there and then
from our substance
and like catechisms in tongues,
useless without someone to interpret
or love’s lessons come lately, too late in general
to cover anyone or any multitude of past,
and any and other’s sins
like love found, lost and acted to purpose
but the saint’s sins..
listen:
sometimes as through glass
the world darkens to focus, diffused passion
where light seems the enemy
like charity
and if outside
green from lawns
reflects blue to eyes
and to the free will of the beloved
WHEN THE LIGHT FORMS BEGAN
THE light WAS dim AND pleasant
And eyes were full of the essence sand
And comfortable
π
and all roads led home
π
the found way pleasant to the touch
found water, the water again
lovely from the great wonder
the wonder that formed the fireflies and wisdom
the fireflies are in formation again
and John died
dad. 1980
in my arms, like I said before
dangling like participles
to the end of his will
the information was remembered
i never had a mic, a deck a board
too bad,
to put the sweet music of him
to proper form
instead:
listen;
π remember,
and if you can’t remember,
imagine.
memory is bone deep
likened to a dream forgotten
π

ok
I was already 21. All ready
to go back home. Josie
was not on the hood of the car
with Dad and me. She was
there for the funeral.
his will left that day
and saw the grand display
the fireflies.
I told you before, he loved Virginia
the mum who gets the high candle
the one who raised me by hand of will
synonymous with me
symmetrical to the doings that Dad did
that he lived, breathed in me
that was mum’s will too
one flesh remember, listen..
imagine
and you and I, if we listen with right ears
to what’s left
and Dad died
and made the fireflies be born
π
the setting:
me and dad sitting on the hood of his car
a cigarette dangling in the marsh
we were camping
smoking. Right to the end that one
and Dad told me that he had a pain
an ache that wouldn’t spend itself in age
and lie a death, to the obvious passions
dead long since any rage, and Virginia
π
my mum was a lot to look at
long
dark
like black and silk and
silver with light
upon a screen she was in me
and the dreams of men as boys
are always of pretty-mum, mine was mine
mine was Mum
I’m sure
when she worked
at Champion Spark Plug after the war
at her wits-end,
that when she visited the legion
and the live soldiers there
that many sons dreamed of her
beauty
attrition
wealth
want
and bundles of late formed dreams
from steel monsters
war ships on seas
Her face was like angels singing to angels
like the sound of the sight of a cherub
who watching the gates of the city
takes time to sigh
and absolve vows for five simple senses
like Vermillion long before..
π
Mum wasn’t there either. I
asked Dad like before.
I asked him, “Did you love her?”
He said, “Yes, I never stopped.”
the woman:
who stole his eyes at birth.
like from dreams of her.
(Dad did dream).
he was standing as near a new birth
ready to play some game there
in the larger ballpark near his yard
waiting for the rain to start
to delay the inning
and Virginia stood silent in his dream of her
his imaginings, want, and faith
too red faced to speak
little dimples sixteen to the day
and him thirteen in a cotton outfit
pinstripe, like the ‘yanks
and leather hand catching the ball
and the girl, standing five feet into the dream
and the whole game disappeared
π
and he loved The Epiphany of Her
and held her like proper-pride
his Virginia.

love isn't Venus
stars, moon, light, spectrum,
grand displays;
of parading beauty
parodies, like goddesses on runways
of daytime dreams
not any nature, fact, special
feeling while looking at Monet,
reading gogal,
playing Debussy, to worship
an image of static or change
or anything graven or grey.
not grand schemes to serve
ideal visions in fact
no reason
at all
not seeing following down tunnels,
lost like children in darkness
on stairways descending to
adversity, trying to catch love
before a decent
face is formed.
grabbing by shabby clothes
that hold beauty by the heart
that tells her she's worth more
than image,
substance,
even worship.
more than admiration,
dreams lovers have
of gratifying a lost puppy feel
of life transposed
from intention to the mirror
of what's never seen
or been there at all.

The street
And an early early thaw
The tramps and troubadours are out
I’m particularly interested
In the other jay-walking poets.
Hear the music?
They can’t sell their rhymes
The beggars stripped to the handle
By need vie for the corners
It’s strict competition
I walked a woman cross the street
She grabbed me by the pockets
But in her eyes she saw me.
It had to be.
She told me.
Broke singers, actors
Dancers, comedians
They walk, live on bread Wine,
Just wine sometimes.
They’re lucky to get a cigarette.
I kissed a strange Indian today.
She was wet and wonderful
From dew that was frost
And reckless with love
She ran up to me
And took my hand
I melted,
Just like the thaw of late
She put my hand on her shoulder
And before long
To cross the street
We danced a proper waltz
I never could hear the music
But I heard her breath
In the middle of the street
And I kissed her
And she me once
I saw doves,
Jumping like archetypes
Of coming storms
Wonder and lust
But the lust was quiet
So quiet,
Like storms in memory

I loved her.
And she me I suppose
Her friend pulled her into the bar
And said, "big trouble".
Of course it's true.

is
the almost nonsense word
that describes
what i feel
when i look at
and see you.

I strongly suggest
that every one of us
jump off of that cliff
of love affair
that seems so unwise
but truly isn't.

Nothing will catch you.

You will fall.

But at the bottom,
is indescribable joy
a chord of music,
sublime and true

This is a monument
to the principle of pith
The pithy truth
that love is a true burden
gradually compressed
by inward growth

The alternative
standing to unfocussed attention
the border of confusion
regret and chaos
is death

to save you from this burden
would be unthinkable.

Of drawn-to
by her unrelenting charm
I will sequester my self
to pay a debt for inclusion

My first fear,
is that given pure leisure
to look upon her beauty
to that-point of sated joy

That that state will make
a princox of my heart
and in this impetuous state
past apt reason,

(which reason is necessary
in any competition, or
wise contemplation)
that my mind may cause me
to fall upon the sward
of my-own adoration

My second fear,
is that her image, against ambition
graven, indelible on mind
and my imagined presence of her
in this constant fashion,
may cause me much grief
and derivate dichotomy of will
in the instance of some other
more important vying

But, Soliloquys aside,
I who in memory
of being a small-will within
Caused my larger-will
to consciously surrender
And I changed,
and brought a true face forward
To see and be seen by her
Ecstatic beauty