1

            Waves could wash away certain blue memories but they're too blue. Today I've sat in two places, my heart full of you and how in the night under a half man in the moon too soon, too soon, did love die? Today I've sat in two watery places but the rhythms will never wash away the face and smell and voice of you. Thus, I stand in the sun, like that, the breeze gently tears my beard and life becomes death.

            No, no, not that. A boat being repaired in a boatyard. And think of it! people on the planet earth! And nothing, but nothing, not even tao, is permanent. Whereas for us my dear this is a disadvantage, since I wished to be permanently a member of your arms, for me the individual I do not disappear as long as there is change. Life is like all things that are forever changing but will always remain the same. Love is one of those things.

            From hitch-hiking, as the sun descends I proclaim this, the mystery more powerful than the handshake. Thus, even unto children I have kept my silence, and even unto you I will. The white birch bending over the river fell in. It carried downstream and in one tidal sweep became a great white fish. When the sea dried up this unlucky fish grew wings anyway and became the great bird. The heavens were too small and it shattered into bits like you and I.

            To say I love you until the house falls down. Beyond the row of houses lit by street lamps and into the night I go, with and without you, both. How is it the powerful night attends you like a magician his queen? The way the sun would climb into a bottle to please me.

2

            Under a full night of black night stars, shooting and shining, turning a world of sun worlds, everything universe and cool wind, mountains of dark sound and a stream's breath song, I think often, until dawn, of your strong love. All of these true things becoming mine as a shore. And we inside as a breath baby. Listen, life darling long, four horses grazed nearby my head last night, like good luck. Struck thus I write: your love is greater than the real celestial globe.

            Something thicker and velvet than deep sea foam for you swirl lover. Something true to the events of our lives, the clear mountainous horizon of vision. Over the vast green earth O population of human and animal lovers to chewing very cud, our bond is fulfilled as a mother. A tremendous earthquake couldn't exist without us.

Wherever peaches grow I go and pick 'em.
When they get ripe I try and swipe 'em.
The farmer runs out with a shotgun and wonders where's the
      varmint gone?
I'm hiding by the railroad tracks stacking the peaches I've
      found.

Then a freight train about a mile long rolls by hauling a bucket
      of rain.
I hop aboard while beautiful clouds gather to the north.
I put my peaches in the bucket and lug it to a hidden part of
      the train.
The rain begins, the night looms in, it's summer and it's
      thoughts and warm.

To the clacking rumble and the patter I close my eyes and
      dream.
An earthquake swallows up the people who wear horrible
      masks of fright as their daily tasks are trampled.
In a favorite movie theater an illumined lady puts her hand in
      mine, warm mouths, breath, skin, hair wing-soft, whole
      bodies, wind, bare.
I open my eyes at sunrise there's a steady glow of light
      around.

If you can believe in God, you can believe the mountains go
      from purple to green.
While the last partier meanders home to bed the first farmer is
      up to milk his bread.
Fruit of the world ripens audibly and cities make a silent,
      distant sound.
Lonely guy stretches, rubs his eyes, pees out a passing train,
      has a breakfast of peaches and rainwater.

I see a green tree. It is all I want.
A dry rocky mountain and a hawk
satisfy. To die spiritually in
the hot sun and the body go on
climbing. To take the paths among
the rocks and mahogany bush.
To feed on rock lichen and blue
sky. To not need a house.

To leave my mind in the foothills.
To climb everything but blind. In
the deer shade of the cool aspens.
Forgotten by the work force and the shrew.
Bored as a badger disturbed at
its stream. Free singing as the stream
cutting the gorge. Cool as a hummingbird
in its wet spray. Caterpillar fur.

I stay in the mountains unknown.
The roof soot of the city calls me back.
The museum women shaking their bodies
at the stuffed tigers. The meditating
curators and entrepreneurs. Burro.

            --------------------------------------

Old Basho, early Spring, took fond leave of his friends,
closed his small house at edge of village,
and with one peasant companion climbed the long narrow road to
      the North.

Blessed morning!
      the day I left life behind
            but not this world of dew.

Absolute science and art of being whole
            at one and under no delusion that
                        mankind (or nature) give a ****
                                    whether you amount
                                                to something or not.
                                                            ­Narrowed down
                                                            ­            nothing

nothing but matter matters, matter, content
            of life (serious, love it) hate
                        death, for the hell of it, to
                                    see what it's like in
                                                the heart of
                                                            da­rkness.

Deeper and deeper I go
            but who would bother to **** me
                        or love me? Belonging to the drums
                                    of wooful war I
                                                woof and bay like
                                                            ­every other
                                                           ­             dog.

Down I go to the depths of material life
            the material is spirit wrought
                        by the material world. The
                                    drum and jet plane
                                                the bird and sumac
                                                           ­ the pollen
                                                          ­              seed.

No answer is forthcoming for the young fool
            importunes to ask too frequently
                        the fool's question. What
                                    is my next move. He
                                                steps lightly and does
                                                            ­not seem to care
                                                            ­            quite where.
                                                          ­                          The

material world is reality, my friend
            and sadness is the spiritual root
                        without which the love-nut
                                    may be reached only
                                                by stretching
                                                      ­      the emotions
                                                        ­                bare

raw, where desert delights exhibit
            movement in the sunlit light. Where
                        none find their way
                                    without following leaders
                                                sometimes­ the wrong way.
                                                            ­The path
                                                            ­            is

apart from the dance or the dancer who
            cutting cross country laughs
                        at his perennial fright of being
                                    caught outdoors, out of sight
                                                alone with the wind and rain
                                                            ­for days on end
                                                             ­           in hiding.
                                                         ­                           Up

on the roof, the telephone ringing,
            books getting delivered to the library free,
                        gratis, no fight, no love
                                    a meager understanding
                                                of what rolls
                                                           ­ the earth.
                                                          ­              Gravity

rolls the earth (and may sometimes rock it)
            each of us achieving the gravity of a planet
                        and pulling the world apart with our loves.
                                    Taking existence beyond the limits
                                                set for it, into
                                                            ­the universe
                                                        ­                beyond

We went out beyond the surf
            into the adirondack of trees waiting,
                        wanting nothing, mountains
                                    wanting to grow slowly.

I am feeling the shock of fast change. How to cope with it is of course the question. Listen to Beethoven through the neighbor's window? Look up from the page? Appreciate doves even though they are so numerous? I seem to have limitless choices although this cannot be true. Could I have become a computer specialist? Sure! How to remain still in the ever-maddening mandala. To remain still on the outer edge of the wheel is to ride laughingly and pluck at the gold key. I force myself down into the craw of the black vortex New York until I feel the strong oscillations gather rhythm and expel me or accept me.

What do I find within the black electric walls of this unique vortex? I find there is more space between people than I'd ever dared to hope. That my efforts are unnecessary and hopeless. I cancel my subscriptions and stop eating. I embrace wild roots and run through streets with arm around my girl.

                         --------------------------------------

What is important.
That question.
I part my lips in the middle
      and blow
eat corn chips, dipsy doodles
make love, eat grapes.
                                       In their mere chronology
events have no relation. How was making love
different from eating grapes. Differentiation

is essential to bring order from chaos. The chaos
is the accelerated change created by our own species
whose consummations have a quantum effect
      on the environment.
                                          But the chaos
existed long before, and long after us
in both more serene and violent forms.
Again a duality, but here's why.
                                                       For
each duality may then be said to be in a dual
relationship with another duality, forming
cubes.
             These cubes are difficult to join
with other cubes, unless first they are
somewhat melted.
                                 We were traveling among
these cubes, maneuvering
through a static array of equidistant points
but finding it impossible to avoid striking them.

So why the difficulty adapting. Because no species
before us had to adapt to its own effects upon
environment? No, every species must

but our adaptations (of the world) are so successful
(such fabrications!) One green, one brown

                        Two dead leaves
                              sleep-touching
             ­                       Then a breeze!

                         --------------------------------------

                        L­oveliness and loneliness
                              these periodic
                                    auras
                                  
surrender to greater force, power, strength
        whatever it is called, the clog of heels
                 upstairs to the door, turning of
                          the key, the taking out of the
                                   garbage down below, car
                                            starting, placed in
                                                              ­   gear, cat
                                                             ­             meowing

anyway, for myself, personally, speaking only
        for myself, because although the Parks
                 Department rakes the leaves as it
                          did last autumn, to keep them
                                   from clogging the sewer system,
                                            I am in a heightened
                                                      ­           state of vibration
                                                       ­                   Quivering

like a long steel pipe banged hard against an
        iron beam. The hard hat feels it in
                 his hand (on the gears) but
                          great buildings are built that
                                   nature destroys in time
                                            with a little wind
                                                            ­     water, fire

air, you glide down through the limpid air
        toward the ninety-seven story abandoned structure
                 remnant of an earlier civilization
                          abandoned but not yet entirely
                                   swept away in slow waves
                                            of change.

How cool!
this early summer evening
after a day so oppressive
even we New Yorkers move painstakingly.
The breeze in sumac trees
so why am I not more content?
The electricity went off at the bank,
spontaneous bank holiday,
so I'm broke, drinking water.

All my needs except love
fulfilled. Woman
opens her windows. How cool!
this summer evening
in New York, dense New York
the jets overhead
the people on the ground suffering
and struggling toward vague goals
or goals clear as Harry Helmsley's.

How cool and refreshing
this glass of ice water
after today's hot pavement, clothes.
During the afternoon heat
I sleep in my underwear.
What a city I murmur to myself
looking at its map. Big,
Jamaica Bay to Inwood,
the Battery to Pelham Bay.

Nowadays novels need
a few cities to move the plot.
New York, Saigon, Paris.
The protagonist
does not walk in the park. He
uses his car to get around fast.
How cool this evening in New York!
Lost among the bars and industry,
moonrise over Bronx.

Today is April 1st. Transit strike.
Mayor Koch accepting the fact. Myself,
far from crisis central, in North
Manhattan, measuring the temperature
of my apartment. In the sun it is
warm. The crows have returned again
for Spring.

Today life and the city are o.k. Watching
cat in the morning sun. Drinking tea.
My 1300 dollars will melt like summer
snow, but in the meantime, like samurai
I do not show my fear. I remain still
as on the subway and prepared to fight.

I am sitting under the emergency brake
when a coiffured Latin woman rushes aboard.
The doors close but she decides she wants
out. She bangs on the door as the train begins
to move. I see it happen on her face,
she finds the red cord and pulls,
no hesitation.

Maybe someone's hand or foot was caught
in the door. Maybe she's just selfish and
impetuous, got on the uptown not the downtown
side. Maybe the friends she could have
been with didn't get aboard. Whatever
her reason, she acted and the train obeyed.

Some of the passengers sit through the
whole thing, some of us stand. Myself,
I stand, look for the hand caught in the door.
Later, walk home through the pouring rain.
Today is April 1st. Transit strike.
Sky blue, temperatures mild. Democracy
is great.