I had over prepared the event,
that much was ominous.
With middle-ageing care
I had laid out just the right books.
I had almost turned down the pages.

Beauty is so rare a thing.
So few drink of my fountain.

So much barren regret,
So many hours wasted!
And now I watch, from the window,
the rain, the wandering busses.

“Their little cosmos is shaken”—
the air is alive with that fact.
In their parts of the city
they are played on by diverse forces.
How do I know?
Oh, I know well enough.
For them there is something afoot.
As for me;
I had over-prepared the event—

Beauty is so rare a thing.
So few drink of my fountain.

Two friends: a breath of the forest…
Friends? Are people less friends
because one has just, at last, found them?
Twice they promised to come.

“Between the night and the morning?”
Beauty would drink of my mind.
Youth would awhile forget
my youth is gone from me.

(Speak up! You have danced so stiffly?
Someone admired your works,
And said so frankly.

“Did you talk like a fool,
The first night?
The second evening?”

“But they promised again:
‘To-morrow at tea-time’.”)

Now the third day is here—
no word from either;
No word from her nor him,
Only another man’s note:
“Dear Pound, I am leaving England.”

Can we eat ramen in the dumpster
and discuss avoided exertions,
and obtained stimulations?

Can we eat pizza in the sewer,
and notice lackings of duty
and seized thrills?

Can we eat cereal in the warehouse,
and observe overlooked regrets,
and earnest hedonisim?

Can we eat sushi in the shed,
and plant seeds of disregard,
and ignorant gaiety?

Can we dine in the wasteland, the field, or the valley,
and watch pink clouds glide by,
and envy their destination?

you're a Brooklyn Twig
running smooth through the street, like the raw water flowing into the sewer

your hair catches the flowers, the birds and the branches in the wind, in the blood orange of 5:15

your eyes explode across your view, all the wonder and waste that red, green, and yellow lights dictate

your shoes tap against graffitti & gum-covered rock, scraping a metropolitan harmony

your thin winged lips trace the black cold air, metallic lights  & ambivalent breezes that caress brick and granite

you've been planted in the garden, acclaimed as the favorite of the season,  and your branches and roots carry a sweet song into the eyes of the boy on the wall.

Maybe, one day, he'll step into the world for you.

Large black eyes like oil pools set in faces snow white...
Perched in twisted branches and silence, risen above the mist,
and the twilight has still not quite faded into night.
I've been dreaming of Owls in the trees,
I know, I can feel that they are not only there watching me...
So I seek the meaning while believing,
in listening to what speaks to us while we sleep-
even if only deriving the message from imagery,
I recognize the language, dreams are our subconscious synergy.
The delicate and intricate ornamentation silvery and fleeting,
They are this darkness's filigree.

Don't worry, spiders,
I keep house
casually.

Napping at midday
I hear the song of rice planters
and feel ashamed of myself.

All the time I pray to Buddha
I keep on
killing mosquitoes.

In the rain in the rain in the rain in the rain in Spain.
Does it rain in Spain?
Oh yes my dear on the contrary and there are no bull fights.
The dancers dance in long white pants
It isn't right to yence your aunts
Come Uncle, let's go home.
Home is where the heart is, home is where the **** is.
Come let us **** in the home.
There is no art in a ****.
Still a **** may not be artless.
Let us **** an artless **** in the home.
Democracy.
Democracy.
Bill says democracy must go.
Go democracy.
Go
Go
Go

Bill's father would never knowingly sit down at table with a Democrat.
Now Bill says democracy must go.
Go on democracy.
Democracy is the ****.
Relativity is the ****.

Dictators are the ****.
Menken is the ****.
Waldo Frank is the ****.
The Broom is the ****.
Dada is the ****.
Dempsey is the ****.
This is not a complete list.
They say Ezra is the ****.
But Ezra is nice.
Come let us build a monument to Ezra.
Good a very nice monument.
You did that nicely
Can you do another?
Let me try and do one.
Let us all try and do one.
Let the little girl over there on the corner try and do one.
Come on little girl.
Do one for Ezra.
Good.
You have all been successful children.
Now let us clean the mess up.
The Dial does a monument to Proust.
We have done a monument to Ezra.
A monument is a monument.
After all it is the spirit of the thing that counts.

far away enough from five pizza doughs per plastic bag or purple keys to a locked unit,
your multicolored hair lights up a coffee shop on days where thunderstorms keep the paper from being delivered.

"she's a sweetheart," the woman in the turquoise blouse says
to her wife,
noting nothing of stains on her apron or
the colors of California strife.

wildfires have lit your eyes for ages, parts per million of the cyclical, ecological division. anything hazel will fade into oblivion with enough self-doubt.

when you've tied your last sweatshirt around your waist, I will hold you through the memories of the wildfires, passing out on the bathroom floor, losing her, the lies that your mother told you, and when you flew just far away enough from the ocean,
but too close to the sun.

it scorches with agonizing pain but i suppose we all have to stare into the sun once more after our eyes have been burnt badly enough to burst.