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Jobs!
the mist of fallen water cools
the bodies of lovers/
met high on converging
paths
above the fallen
pine, in a
moment, grasping
the happiness
of destiny!
'The beginning
of all movement,'
says the mighty
I Ching.
Sympathy for the
life of breathing
things; wonder
of beauty under wings.
'And why arent'
you looking after
the child. You
aren't a man when you
act like a spoiled
child.'
They kidnapped
rich girls and threw
a party for the
poor; baseball falls
from grace; it
is useless, overfed,
and a bore.
Government bankrupt!
CIA bankrupt!
NY City bankrupt!
Northrup bankrupt!
Lockheed bankrupt!
There ain't no
humor in this year
but for the stumbling
President;
no one raises
the possibility
that he is incompetant.
There are the tensions. He counsels
himself
against the intellectual business.
It was
brought into being in relation
to the great
powers of the world; it has cut
its teeth
there. It wants to construct models
in harmony
with the desires of the heart.
It can not
sacralize; it can not give value.
It can only
master the tools and processes
of the world
as-it-is. So, poet, what is it?
Is it going
to be to maintain the tools and
processes,
to reform them, to overcome them,
or to create
the conditions which frees the
spirit contained
in the solidity of the world?
Redmen of the
imagination
who are and never
were
give stength
to the sinking
mind/grey with
offal. Where's
the Chief? The
Chief would never
allow a people
to lose their way.
He is dancing
in entanglements at
ground zero/he
is a raw sense buried
by the raw mind.
So, he spreads a newspaper in front
of him. It
has a decided slant familiar in
university towns.
His mind is filled with argument.
He can not fit
into the wafer thin shadow of
the protesting brain.
You are not gods, only fools who
have yet to meet
your own failures. An angel pursing
intellectaul goals
can become a devil very quickly.
On the way to hell is
the taste of power. And the descending
spirit sees the
world and all its people play-acting
for the benefit of his
plans. Where is the playfullness
of the intelligent ones?
You bury yourself in the earth
and breathe through a straw.
The open heart
on the open sea
dreaming on eternity;
it is falling
from our vision
as terrible clouds
descend.
In the guise of
our romantic interlude
we burled to
the dense underbelly of
coldest regions
of the ocean. Hailed
old foes who boarded
at night while we,
half-sleep ridden,
thought of the love
of women. Fought
them off in the still
night. Fought
them and chased them to
islands they
had sailed from.
Rumination on
the mountain that formed
the center of
the island revealed wonders
I had heard whispered
about; special things
to find in the
sea.
Ah, intellect ashamed of itself
as it
watches the ruin around it. Go
intellect,
mind, into the intuitive baths
and freely
surrender even as the dream submits
freely
to your scrutiny. Spirit, spirit;
become
whole or not at all!
The soul takes
itself to the river
when the world
withers and dies; a
forrest rushes
forward to claim the
desicated soul;
in the sun too long/
pampered by the
women too long.
And in the river
there are falls
and from the
rocks the falls look
as intricate
as a spiders web/
profound as a trigram from the I Ching.
The emerging of
all life/
movement toward
the light
as tree shadow
overtakes us.
And after/woman
come down
from the mountain/to
the
cabin/she fulsome
as white
owl/she lit the
fires/she
sang songs of
hidden gold.
'I have no compassion,'
she
say, 'only knowledge.'
So I
listened to her
tales of
living in the
mountains.
All of this return to the atavistic
has
the poet losing sleep. What are
institutions,
weapons, tools, art but the power
of nature
in its original aspect? When the
making classes
fear what they have made know
that great change
is occuring.
There is precision
in the dance
of elements/
they leap to
mountains
and shout to
be heard.
The fire of the
world is all;
the crowds that
taunt the captive
from fearful
wars is all;
the putrid and
cancerous weeds
are all.