Trees, houses, Treehouses,
Abandoned.
beaches
still
appear the same as summer
but the sky's gone
Sunshine
to
Windwine
(Clouds and clouds, some much
larger than others, sometimes just one big cloud
mapped out between
us and rest of universe to the cascade horizon)
All the pets can tread cement
without
worry of burns and the two hundred calamities
of July are over.
Replaced with
rain and bums escaping to the
soup kitchens and
Churches
(East side Vancouver, Pandora Victoria,
astreet in a city astray)
Ashtrays freckled in the evening drizzle
common.
My hands are held by gloves and
fingertips from half of
Japan,
my lips are kissed by the comet
beauty mark on right side
bottom
(Though this universe is attending
university in a distant city
while I hold my own
practicing the Dharma,
or MAYBE none of this will happen!)
Everything is in its place
as it always was-
though circumstance has tried to
teach us otherwise the
Blackbox
made of star-rubber S T R E T C H I N G
Hasn't the concept
of calendars or
Jesus or
medicine cabinets
Dentists and
Saints.
Everything is in its place
as it will always be
as it has never been...
(Ever)
SPONTANEITY of matter
Gliding thr-
-ough matter.
What does it all matter anyway?
There's loving
and experiencing,
Music.
Personsong.
Do-no-wrong.
That no-no of making
mistakes?
A falsity!
**** up
In blissful circles
to the SOUND
OF SNOW
MELTING
on streetlamps front of my
House.
(A very silent orchestra performing
Before collision and like dog whistles
It's a sound we cannot hear.
The peoples got their poetry and
cognitive thought so the other
Animals get the REAL sensory
Inconceivables to write about
But the ******* can't)
In that
future
_____
basement house
Where the Van Gogh
Velvet Underground sit
P
O
S
T
E
R
E
D
on the wood-c
u
r
v
e walls.
I'm in unfolding daydream
Thanking
HUNDRED THOUSAND YEARS
predating my
EIGHTEEN.
Thanking the
Beats and the Dadaists
and Buddhists and
Existentialists
Post-modernists
Minimalists
Expressionists
FOR BEING.
Really, they aided
Me off
the ^ ground
during
eight month unemployment induced depression where
I felt disassociated with myself
and the dynamo outside the front door..
Glowing via
sunlight in the day window and
headlights in the night window.
Either way
I filled up with
(((Purposeless cynicism)))
The world bulb clicked ON
With/without me there,
None of the corner stores
Or airports
Or hospitals
courts and
institutions
gave a rat's ***
what woes I be asphyxiated by
or that Farmquiet two lane
tarnished path
In the country (in May)
seemed fine a place as any
to step a few feet to the
right
and
left
of me and
.......DIZZY.......
by death traffic
old Buick polish
(Tragedy they'd say!)
While there midway in the firing line
I felt like
the wackos in l o o s e
stone COLISEUM daisy cages
Empty lots,
Place where the beast of
Emptiness cuffs to your sleeve
and weeps
All over itself
that Sarte was right all along!
(No Exit! No exit!)
Autumn quartz moonlight O
Illuminated headstone repetition
circling musk fields.
Skeleton wings
Of preceded seasons' timbers
Caught muttering the
Corpseconvo
as the tumblecar
trembling hot in
Music sauna HUM
Approaches life,
to the
paralyzed November air
of
Coffin bodies insulated
By roots N' six feet of terrestrial barrier.
Faces disappearing now
to Heavenly chandeliers of time
offering distant light future
and above my ponderous skull presently
dancing riverside to situations
and newness
(2016)
enigmatic spiral
every color every
possibility
every rainbow or
non-rainbow chromatically
webbed in Attic
of secluded
Quantum Dimensions-
The big blue doors are opening to cosmic entirety,
cats everywhere are purring in their sleep,
somebody reads Murakami,
Picabia,
Joyce,
W.C Williams,
Berryman & Brainard too.
Big blue doors, rites of passage,
Aarti Varanasi twenty-seventeen,
joyride to San Francisco (I wrote a poem on that once!)
Continuing self-exploration,
reminding that soul to stay awake,
the search for love-
Warmth when the year is
metamorphosed to cardinal leaves
Sunset Summer!
Autumnal transfiguration
spiritual!
Rearrangement of the concurrent reality!
I turn 19 in October and
a procession of kind-eyed children
will be born in the moments
I blow the cake candles.
Light goes out!
light comes in!
Hanoi expects me still.
