Documenti di Didattica
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David E. Patton
2
by
David E. Patton
3
http ://chalkeditions.co.cc
2010
4
text-© 2010 David E. Patton
design-© 2010 Peter Ganick
art-© 2010 Jukka-Pekka Kervinen
The Jazz Symphonic Glass Ear
Part I.
5
Go my friend to where the weak words wounded by its
growth upon the silent thin skin of the particular poet’s
last longing to tightly teach you with his tongue tied to
the words that teach by the breath held by the rhythm of
wishing words the way of being at pious peace with the
whole of the wounded world with the warmth willingly
worshiped and whip-washed when water weep wontedly
and the sincere secrets that you seek and you keep for
fear of being along lingering as the lost son of man
abandoned by the Gods with their grand glory that once
people the world with its final formal females of minor
Goddesses and the personal God of the self replacing the
major Gods as hybrid human-animal fighting the demons
we keep beneath the sweet sweat of our skin poets are the
soul of people they pen purely poems that put you in the
mood to be mindfully meaning to make a more mortal of
you as one with the whole of the world surely as we keep
our keepsake secrets in a silent bony box beneath the
silent skin of our anger losing its meaning till the poets as
protested prophets tell us the stories of our myths to
defend us against Pazuzu and Croucher and the truth of
Satan in our heaven bound place of the eternal song
within the internal self where the holy song is sung as if
suing in the heavenly mystery revealing itself to the evil
divinities that have earned to call itself a child of the earth
the dirt the universe the deep mystery of the Gods of the
self that we rebirth within ourselves again and again earth
is a woman and each man is in part soul wooing
womanly till the end of telling time but modem man
seeks to kindly kill the woman working wildly within
himself to exorcize himself of the earthy Goddess
dressed in the growth of the world full of the folk myth of
deep thought on the small milkweed deed of the seed
with its precious promises of the greater things in its need
to twine in links of the chain link fence he seeks to buy
by busy bodacious muscle and military mind of might his
way into the haven of heaven with heavy headed coins he
pepper the holy plate but treat the homeless as lepers
leaning long against the wall when it is his acceptance 6
of the naked self of the flesh that we are meat in the body
of God within the worry wrapped world that is the price
to reach the newly prayed for heaven that we carry with
us we need no prophylactic amulets of coins no cross
carved by a bushman for we have the spiritual currency of
the spirit to endlessly spend before the sortilege the
tossing of our bones and stones to divine the answers of
the Gods you are that you are a kin of the Godhead of the
world the only God that you shall know by the breath that
is you rebel against crimes of the couture culture that
birth you for such urgency is your inherences drop out to
tune in if you think that you can not win the more you
seek to change it the more that it is fed by your enticing
legacy do not alienate yourself from yourself nor the
cultural that despise you and despise no man for his
weakness for he is only guilty of being a honest human
being of being as so many are lost in the insignificancies
of the masses they follow the rut and routine rot of daily
life to save the world you must save yourself first by the
feast of the laid table you must render unto the self what
is the self give to the body what is the body and unto the
world what is the world forget not that even our flesh is
an island of thought for the meat of the divine mind is
taught to befriend even if we all are an island of bones
and skin I am that I am is the simplest truth of the self
told by the pumping of blood or sap it is by the precept of
the falling of rain that I am sustained by the discarded
breath of trees the light of the sun fulfill my needs the
island of the self is an illusionary thing for we are hard
wired into the working of the universe and yet our world
is insignificance to all but what lives upon it a fact that
our Gods can not change for we are born of the big bang
still we quest for the authorization of the Gods to save us
be they earth bound or of some distant range of the sky
and the priest must be paid in souls the poets must sing he
is paid with words the politicians must promise what he 7
can not keep the prophets must prophesize his
supernatural divine prediction the philosopher with his
love of wisdom must explain the mindful meaning of
being man the pushers of religions must engage the
scientific knowledge of the day and Gods must change
not so much their ways but what is believed of them if
they are to hold their stay hold their way in the hearts and
minds of modern men meaning to mind the store of the
body there is no other way to be save but by saving others
who wish only to kindly keep keen and clean to the
predictable flow of being one of the mindless many of the
state meeting head first their dull destiny with a lost
dignity as defined by the pushers of the capitalist God
greedy for greenbacks you can not spend your way into
the heaven of the Christian God you can not grease the
palm of the righteous purist priest that molest the chorus
boy beneath the shadow of the golden cross gild and
glittering with it cold glow meant to catch the heart of the
fitful faithful Gods have no bank accounts in which to
store up the souls of the faithful against a rainy day ever
ready to reek of rot and the rank of flesh in the given
grave rot is a-foot in the belly of life evil is defined by
action most times full of passion it is inured by a
goodness that seeks to protest us the goodness of the
Gods are tools to fortify what goodness we hold secret to
ourselves as the traveling water nature of rain knows not
itself the rhythm of it reframe the evil that men do will
remain with us deep within the history of the grave where
we no longer ring the bell of a false death who is it to say
that this is a good or bad thing when we finally fed at a
measured leisure nature as a pay back a rake back a take
back of our flesh to the great rest the last when even the
soul is no more its daily duty done the great sleep pulled
over its eye and it goes back into the nothingness from
which it was born replaced by a younger soul time kills
all weather or not they consistently knows that they live 8
such things are true of trees are they soulless with an
assigned value as tree as wood that linger pass the time
inherent in the flesh as the age of bones we all leave
something of ourselves in the flow of the world although
something of the self hidden but represented by a heavy
headstone hard in it hurried sat upon the ground
12
Go you stumpet for coins that jingle in the pockets of a
windswept windstorm blowing wimple heads of live-wire
nuns shocking with Jesus the unbelievers’
Comstockery of the forlorn bad lad that die away the airy
grey blooming and consuming the years of his life in a
hardy handsome joy of a boy running down the hall to hit
the wall of manhood the strain in his veins the last past
look of his flame flung tongue toward the older and
colder expressed guessed muscle movement of being a
man in the wet wilderness of a yet full grown face where
doing wrong is still strong beneath the cloudy hair of the
grey mixed air of full fog’s form from its only ordered
oscillating fine flow that can take your brave breath away
to the fray stranded by the wayside of the last cross road
emotion of emotional skipped that can slip into the shed
of the head with its thorns covered walls where all
thought things tear their wings above the new dew
formed fail with its hail Maries dumb against what may
come of the haply holy Mary when in the end it have not
forgot that soon the moon of a sliver little yellow tune
that go singing the thoughts that sought to move toward a
love impeached sounding a musical ring worn on the
finger of a sweetness preaching its sermon left alone to
the bereft where the eye die its sight against the rust of
dust with its formal sonic crust spoken and straying to all
that fall from the corner of the aromatic smiling air about
the crossroad where we must choose which way to go
which way toward our soul that follow with us all the
dead days of our live long lives which way to pray to pin
our hopes on the orange orphic when Gods are or as if
tomorrow has come under the fasting of the mute sun
under the tabula rasa sun perhaps precisely glowing over
the bureaucratic traditional urban life that grows in the
cracks of a calm bemusement’s irrational nature of a self
in torment because it can not finely fit it form into the
commonness around it where the alienated drifting of one 13
man’s self-assured candles lit by the factories of
retirement that makes us one with the crisp whip-crack
compensation forward for being a good boy by the
standers of a society that will find you gouty guilty of
felling to fell and understand the nurtured nature of a
controlled man with his cardiac mind and gut ranching
heart reaching into the long lost Eden where the first
poets was Gods of the fresh flesh of a snake twined
around the tree of knowledge he offered the fruit to
woman willing to know more then the face of her God
thus the sha’ir was born to forever know that man will
feel alone in the nudity of his nakedness man the killer of
his brother the killer of Gods by the light of his science
killer of men in mass number he have grown numb to his
killing done for no other reason then he will when he can
and he will not weep but seek an ease for killing peace
there in lie the blame of man insane notion that he own
the land the dirt in hand the nub end energetic eager man
noble and notorious seeking to save himself by that very
science while the poet as priest will not blame but seek to
explain that after all is said man is but meat to the world
nothing more nothing less then flesh and bones he drink
from a common well and his belly swell to tell that pound
for pound he is a creature of the glorious ground he build
his homes in every crack he cringe at the make ready
nature of weather he cry out to his Gods that there is no
justice for the just of the judgment that he have made man
is all my pity piled pound for pound pulling the pull
wagon full of fine regrets and felled prayers he is the
heart of my heartily held honors hidden in my notion of
desire that drive the world wild with its winning wisdom
that would wring the womanly wants from a manly man
man is my mate and my mentor my murder my saint and
my demon and all my kin by the manhood of man and
even though each of us is signally contain in the body of
our skin with a mind that is particular to the body that 14
holds it we are of a kindred spirit this is why we as poets
must pen his life lived and consult and pacify and
strengthen his belief in a God that demand a price to be
paid such is the nature of our duty toward the habit of our
hands that handle the piety of the pen
54
Part II.
66
Sun flowing in a gilded abode I am not alone filled with
futurist suns seen but unknown in the spyglass where the
cold universal winds blowing their ligature light toward
an eager eye focused on their shingon shining shipping
slip of a sun to behold the gentle silver temple of fighting
rocks that are dropped into the wanting water of a
gigantic bird-like struggle biting the blazon blue taught to
the bloody shoulders of trees forcing the sea to give up its
recently dead drowned in the watery sanctuaries where
the pigeon guillemot perform the funeral rite as an
offering to the Gods of the sea Oceanus and Ophion
wrestling Kronos excluded by the re-entering of the
waves into a silver salve of the night savage and thorny
and as exuberant as a forgotten memory as the rare
laughter of an immense speaking in tongues of a looped
off courage of the victorious silent feeding off the
momentous vehement witnessing the concerting of it
when the suffice surface of a staved day is the dealer of
the manger encrusted with bamboo and luggage both
confused by the trailing traveling of the future to a place
where appear the null scale of the weight of the world the
last time that I saw the swear on the tongue of an island
making love to the warm water the rocks of the river bank
its brother this everybody knows in their dreams that
blows the cold generative processes of weather with its
non-subjective manner toward the man made temple
where Gods of correction spoil us with to much lazy love
and we wonder if what we are saying in their name is the
real income that will seal our souls in the advancement of
heaven ok so we are wrong on this account and its time
that we find the lost blue carrying the scrambled words of
a long forgotten prayer with its inconsistencies caught
like silent bent butts of spent cigarettes littering the
streets of an early sundry Sunday dawn watching over us
for much of the week the churches sleep waiting for you 67
waiting to hear the halleluiah of the soldiers of stained
glass that have witnessed the importance of a magical
jealousy of a miracle what did you hear in the forest of
sainthood of the dark forest where the poets feed off the
dim light of growth thick and tight in its feeding of the
full belly born in a year of starvation where the iniquity
of fire in the bones is unsure of its own burning where the
mistrustful lies spoken to Jeremiah blows away the cover
that contain them what did you hear when you drew near
the millennium cross that require you to suspend the
recognition of rational truth and go with your hands full
of faith can you now hear the passive mass man that have
forgotten how to define himself under the dilemma of
normality in a society of the conditional confusion of
being an individual the earnest essence of the hero’s
violence is the ultimate saturation situation of the internal
intensity of his allogeneic alluvial alienation in a state of
crisis where his poems are a manifestation of his desire to
belong blindly and brutally he burns the assertion of his
human dignity burns bound round the waste of a place
where his soul of the gospel of gloom in the tomb of his
cloistered convictions that the messiness of the rigors of
being human lay hissing in the heart where his piety with
it constancy of faith in being one against the rarest stone
state that swayingly swear to the saints collapsing their
worn wire wings into the cupped hands of the petition
position of a begging prayer when the flesh is vivid as a
chant on the lips of the righteous with their hands cupped
in prayers where the trapped air burns with the words that
take to the wings of memories the world shall gather its
seasons into one and function as an assassin of flowers
head heavy as Horus with his wisdom of the obelisk
pointing to the high heaven handwritten by the beautiful
tenderness tending to the tonal laughter of the last angel
with its summoned purity of an inheritance honored and
horned as a hired hand hooking up doing the biding of the 68
benign blind Gods knotting together the throbbing of
drums of man’s destiny from the divine silent executing
the vain question of their increased excitement for the
voices heard by Saul against the love held by David and
Jonathan their wild nabiim for He-who-is who is he is he
who he say he is the father of the angels the fallen feather
once flung far a field to the feeling feeding off the
fending out of against the unworkableness historical
chaos’ value of deceit presenting it evidence as
obdurately as the calculated civilized society of the
modern world where unknown laugher gush forward
from victorious vipers born thunderstruck beneath the
thumb of social pressures to be one with the ruling rules
of the political structure of a two party system that
champions the woes of the middle class and not a
mouthful of woeful words for the practicing poor
straight-fully struggling and stripped of the density of
their dignity in the riches country of the working western
world that will pay billions to feed wars wage against the
oil rich muslins an ancient war of religion for the souls of
men but if it was as simple as all that the Gods do not pat
us on the head and say good boy to us their pets their
domestic animal they watch from the high heaven and
surely they laugh they hoot and holler while the angels
hang their heavy heads hard by the foolishness that we
can not escape as human is as human does under the sun
striped of it Godhead this battle is never won you can not
beat a man to his death with the bible and then call him
saved so we use booms boasting bombs busting in air
scaring the foreign cities where youth is sacrificed for
some greater good in the minds of men a tragic death that
we can not be taken back as once you know yourself you
can not but forget the who you was when the
phenomenon of you in the world first begin when the first
concept of the self was made known to yourself and you
said I am liken to this longing I am full of the anxiety of 69
the flesh I am the me that nobody knows no matter where
I go I am signally alone in my skin of stimuli I am my
only emergency a walking world of cells working in
united unison the mystery of yourself fixed in the
resplendent respective body with all of its truthful
trivialities and grandee grandeur woven into the telling
total representation of the you you keep secret from
admirers you who is subjected to the trivial tribal trials of
the flesh and must handily handle them with confinable
courage and a kind of wishful wisdom common to the
Godly good man who believe in the numbing nobility of
the Gods that knows that each man carry within his genes
the primitive pattern of his forefather thus is the dead
reborn in every man in each integrated individuality of
the self that is true to the self that must come to challenge
the anti-human man made world where the poet’s
strength of will is pitted against the state of commercial
commerce to sell even the flesh for a prideful price when
the economic enterprise of the noise making machines
enslave us with their delusions of grandeur we lose our
instincts and passions and idiosyncrasies we become one
of the mass many who must raise to do the duty of meat
for hire and we as men lose out our capacity for self
determination and there-by our power to create in such a
time it is left to the poet to penetrate the inner frustrations
of the man who have given over his soul to the machines
it is the poet ever a hero who must fight the notion that
the soul of man is a cash value commodity to be sold in
the market place of the square and church where we do
as we are told for the good of the society that knows it
can control and mold us into the cold citizens who above
all else must follow the rotting rules of the stale state and
stay well within the cozy warmth our boring boxes where
we are manually manipulated race against race man
against woman gay against straight rich against poor
young against old smart against the common man that 70
seem not to know that he is under the control that he is
losing his unique identity by doing what everyone does
not what he ought to do for the true salvation and
fulfillment of his soul it is left to the artist to show us the
way of the spirit fulfillment in a life well lived and not be
led as an ambulatory machine made if flesh and bones of
the state it is left to the sensitivity of the artist to combat
the petty tyrants that men can be in their drudgery and
endless bureaucratic immoralities the artist must be ever
skeptical ever living in the moment of the now while he
create as if that is all there is he must seek space must
break through the stone walls of imposed laws that seeks
to hem him in that confines him as a mad man speaking
to madmen
Sun with its heated hands reaching far into the daphnia
darkness where the son of Hermes is singing his songs of
the dry land to the inhalators of the brick laden sky
bricked over cities where Icarus fly above endlessly
circling within the nosey noise of the city hear O hear
the middle warning of the devil tree blooming its deep
deceit to eat in your mother’s arms of the forbidden fruit
sweet leap into the grave yard of mosquitoes on the skin
of the arm where the nameless tongue of the dirt can not
be washed away by the never-the-less rain that linger
recklessly on the included insult sobbing conversationally
after all these years of being weary of the interesting
difficulty of being human in the modern world where the
saxophone of you breath is blowing an alien wind full of
your glories when you are rushing on your run toward the
mystical secrets of hot blood burning in the veins of the
wide-eyed controversy of wrenching psyche from the
dualism achieved by the bitter blood that rush feverishly 71
pass the overheated notion that there is but one God
feeding the tingle beneath the skin of the shrub-lands
where the consciousness of the embodiment of the
material body reinforcing its very existence with the cults
that caught the individuality of cities where an invasion
from the north wind washes over the pseudo-structure of
the soul of men born out of the song of the despair of
poetry inalienable and interchangeable by the
meaningful metaphor’s depth of momentous motion all
benevolence and rarely gnarled by the knowable delirious
fidelity strung on the secondary secret illuminate
innocence of the science of a sick self in the grip of
specialization the absolute absence of Gods man
absurdity is front and counter center in his strangle
struggle to achieve some meaning of the self no no longer
do we think that the Gods shall save us from ourselves in
the strictness of a question where God is the answer we
treat nature as our mother in the strictness of a question
where science is the answer we treat nature as our
decoration with its tragic action struggling to achieve the
customary delusion of lesser men who are caught in the
daily pleasures that keep them occupied keep them
sedated calculating the enormous commandment of the
state that smite the stranger of an individual divinity
perishing by the less impetuous principle of the
complexities of consciousness caught in the seducing
light of the TV caught by the sexual pleasure of a full
belly mixed and fixed for the free fiery piety found in the
face of a grace that stray into the majesty longing
perpetuating itself into the new millennium of a
possibility found amount the selection of the civilized
centuries enormously drunk on the enology of a grape
grouped with the sterility and frustration of the modern
man groping in the darkness of a crimson criminal night
72
Sun of a violent oppression for its own combustion
burning away the last coffee color odor satiric satyr
stricken by a swollen vain where blood flows it way to
the wind’s saxophone heard by saxicolous growth in the
death of the swamp’s odor playing a symphony’s
movement to the distance motion of a time worn out tale
that smell of the sun burning itself brightly alive when
you come around the dead history that remain full of the
stale voices that live in the bible of our most slow belief
out of season where the unbeknown wisdom clinging
slippery to the stubbornly vernacular of a god damn he
done-done me wrong gather your newspapers where the
news falls like stones made of words swollen in the
bellies of corpses tangled in the history of memories
knotted around the tomb stones that acts as a resting place
for weary birds coalescing into a nuclear sentimental key
where China sleep the long dragon’s tail of chop sticks
peddle as lies spoken around the red season huddled
beside the frightened fall of history that pierce the last
ancient wisdom known to be breathing itself full of the
benevolence mythopoetic strength that persist in its
athletic pride where the landscape of science is dissecting
the possibility that Gods exist in the knowledge of a cell
of a butterfly to discern their particular personalities as
pure as the fog that intersect the green words of the
perched tough utmost dreams of a morning losing its
sounding distant of a far away lie consecrated by the
effervescence incorruptible mirage of the purple dawn
walking the sky of an introspected surprise in the eye of a
siren’s howling its way to the emergency of the
combatant murder by the innocence of a guilty nature
guilty of eating the last glass of a fifty stories building
swaying in the gripping wind of the great smoldering
clouds disappointed when facing their refection hung in
the window where the Jesus juice of a commander’s
goodness of voices spoken in the ear of the dead wood of 73
furniture opulent and non-miraculous in its puncture
grains running toward the center of the earth when trees
die they go to useful wood or rot along in the forest of
tomorrow the song of their falling need not be heard by
the human ear unless you be one who think that human
are the center of the universe and that all existence
depend on the store dick with his thin top lip and pointed
nose and tiny dick following me around the store where
the religion of commerce keeps its stronghold tight by the
pity that show us how we are doing it wrong turn me on
and I will return the favor and we can do it on our own
when the water of sex whistle the sweat of a butch
speaking easy in the darkness of a night club embracing
the dance of habitat harden by the head felt mating dance
of the whooping cranes in the dark bar where alcohol is
spilled on the dance floor drunk on sweat of the dancers
touching each other the dance is a mating act meant to
prepare the flesh for sex it is where I let loose the rhythm
of my muse in the body moves of grinning against the
juice of the juke box that is drinking alone in the corner
where the light can not reach to enrich the music that
seeks into an ice cube in the dance do not cub me but cup
me in the sweat of your are couple me to your throng I
will do no wrong before I am gone to the sins edged
endure in on Saturday night and forgiven on Sunday
morning by the priest that preach perched in the pulpit of
his piety preach about the pitfalls pitted alone the holy
way where women can not be public preacher in the
private church of the eight sided pointed cross point one
have no other God before me point two I am that I am
point three do unto other as you will have them to do unto
you point four turn the other cheek point five an eye for
an eye point six blesses is he that hear the word of the
prophecy point seven behold ye all the preaching of the
kingdom of God point eight In the beginning God created
the heaven and the earth I am a child of the cross crisp 74
and sharp I cross the counter culture of cruising I cringe
and cry carefully I crave the crablike cradle in the sea of
crawdads keen to keep the sucking of heads with a kind
keel kiss me as a kept keeper that whisper a wild warring
of wishes wanting to be wise and womanly warm in the
womb where I wail wagging the wastage west of the
waste of being human I am a whore whose whole hog of
a witch of angels is a weed worth blooming bold by the
back light lit in the buzz bomb of buzz words being
brought and sold by bowlegged buzzards eating from a
buckle of bovines milked and mother in a motley
morning minding the millwork that make money move
the world I am that I am the notice pined to my skin the
slim slake stacked and stalled still the will to kill the
when to trill and talk the talk a tone death stone tomb
where hallucinogenic function of ancient mentality is
evidence that the plausible and gradual control of the
sense that noting is wrong beneath the usual phenomenon
of the skin where the sun shed its cloths as a holy act and
the air is rich in warmth like St. Louis in junk June’s juice
of harvested heat homed and hampered about the hungry
hero that hangs his hat on a nail in your door come to
greet him and let him guild your glory quick and guide
the air in the wind turning over on itself should I wish
that I was as unseen as the air but everywhere there with a
feel of my own every thing my home here is the good life
and I can’t get enough of its edge cutting the fine cord
that binds me to the knees of the wind with horny hands it
fills me up with glued prayers it bless me by the skin I
wear the wind tell me that I am alive and not alone in my
holding on to the breath that bathe me when I first met
the wind I didn’t thank that we would be friends it was
high in motion and I hung it like a kite on the high branch
of a tree we spoke of peace with its eyes on the prize and
the poet did seek us out to consult which way the winds
does blow in the measure of his poems he was to meter to 75
know that he had rocked the red riding the rails of his
most high art with a sudden flash of insight the ribbon of
his poem came to him connected to the conducting thread
at the moment that it is read into someone else head its is
by the working of the muse that the structure of his
consciousness is moved to action automatic and his
afterthought retrieve the necessary nervous system’s
performance of motor skill with the pen
Sun over the ill teaching of man which has come to take
for granted the steadfast recurring light prompting growth
to live its full in fat and lean lands alike a like in lost in
long ago the sun did gather itself unto itself before the
pubescent Gods took to trying out the newly imagine skin
found in the forest of Eden where the tree of knowledge
stood its proceeding proud ground as a temperamental
temptation offered to man falling from grace from the
blue height when he have done all he can and must find
himself home now in a new land where the rain came
down and washed away his sins or so he believed does
believing makes it so when believing drizzle its
breathless legends deep into the arms of being one that
uselessly tells the rain not to drop its supporting nature to
all that waits its coming to have their hearth fulfilled and
birth the next generation now that the day is hog tied by
the freedom of being human killing man killing man who
can understand when Gods are found in colors gathering
to play with children who in their innocence doesn’t
know that soon it all will be over and older but for now
let them ride their colorful emotions that press their
playful notion up against their hearts do you well by the
children they know only the limited world of the self-
centered private self
Sun the wonder of a street life that over took me when the
breath of an old mulberry wild in the riparian habitat of
the Mississippi migrating its strong back brown water
toward the mouth of a mallard’s bill and the city’s stars
can not shine to far and the city’s clouds are for sell well
who can afford this song that I sing it is all that I have to
bless you by as you lie and cry as you stash your brain
waiting for a miracle to set you free from the mild sins
that you have committed in the art of your heart the
forbidden love under the willing plunder of honor my
lover recover from years of tears in the truth of his youth
can not be doom from the womb from the cover of
sexuality that hover about the teenager the unseen noise
of boys playing with their sexual toys in the dark and
dented night where well do I remember my first come the
wisp crisp tower of emotion in the midnight hour intent to
be spent on the heritage of my young age one cold night
as I hitch hiked in the glow of the moon till soon picked
up and given my first blow my teenager body quiver to
know such new found joy now made an art
122
Part III.
Earth and its noise of the sublimate desire of the flesh and
of silent ripping as wind on a pond with its minute life
swimming toward the crowed depth where life keep its
strong hold tight in the gasses of the elemental word
Nature roused by paganism in their glorious visceral
needs of the last bastion of poets caught within the
symptom and symbol of selfhood for his fellow man his
values representing truth forgotten of the introspection
intellectual self-contemplation needs needed to be come a
hero transcending the grey grievous fault found in the
confinement of conflict between himself and society he
loves to serve the world in spite of its dominant
indifference he is a wishful worshipper of words quick to
quarrel the best known dramatization of the paradox of
turning the material of his lonesome art-life into his art
with an animal grace he goes about the world as one put
into the mind of others feeling the pains and joys of his
sisters and brothers with their seductive banalities their
dead-flat lives lived without serious reflection on their
fate within a society that will betray all who find poetry
to be a revenge on life and betray the poet trying to
redeem and recreate the world through his suffering
through his self-tortured soul at odd with the little dignity
of the simple-minded the poets must earn their crosses
they must be purifier of the sluggish mater of daily life
played out in the fickle and fatal world
138
Earth has witnessed war after war after unyielding wars
of man against man earth is full of the hostile literature of
war of the heartbroken grief on the dead bed of a dream
of war fought in the head when the self can not reconcile
its own divinity against the animalist nature of man on
the deathbed of unfamiliar inhabitants of heaven that gave
birth to war on the deathbed restructured harmonious
erotic passion of war on the deathbed of the authority of
the burnt sacrifice of war war war war war and more wars
of man the last warring beast of war war of desire the
intercourse interplay of war the masquerade masturbation
of war the suicidal sexual preference of war the scriptural
of war studied in the halls of a war school the sodomy of
war fucking itself the determinative morality of war the
impious enemies of war are warring against the
contemptible clandestine treatment of war O my man’s
man why do you study the barely bestiality of war why is
your hands full of the instruments of war why is your
hard on heart filled with the richness of war feeding off
the testimonies of Christ and Mohammad whose
followers flight the war of forgotten prayers of loving
your brother
Part IV.
.
I was caught between the cripples, the blind and the lame
that are like grapes on the vine in the churchyard of the 161
unconscious felines on their nightly journey through the
alleys of a dark and hidden psyche keeping to the
shadows sleeping in the winter hands of trees sleep the
long sleep in a night down range of a flying change that
cling to the silence wings sleep the pace of your place
where dreams are dress in the attire that admire the
harshness of darkness clad in the glad wind blowing true
to the blesses time of crime that is never fair to the
victims who do not forecast their last willingness warmly
for the criminals to admire they are true to themselves
true to the one that is none beneath the spread of their bed
trembling like an unpinned wind full of the flash of the
desire of fire sounding in a rustic barrel fire is thicker
then the darkness of night it moves like a gospel of ghost
toward the host of the air there fast-flowing their great
guilt like a rhyme in time modest as a maiden’s tender
cheeks with her charity charm strung on the earnest nest
of the Father the Son and the Holy Ghost that rest in the
wings of a sleeping Northern Bobwhite in the prostrations
of night force from the spot where it is not asleep in the
slumber that it makes when the sunlight comes like a hark
to its prey that stroke and strain in it last breath before
being slashed in an orgy of feeding
Part V.
168
The vigil vulture white nails rusting in a black man’s
coffin in the 60 years inch held tight in the fist of a
voluntary night holding its resignations of churches tight
enough to tell you where the purulent puberulent Gods of
fine hair keep their age safe from the warring hands of
man bursting tears by the butcher bucket full where the
clear deep seeking eye lie a little harder
When the night ache to see its color kinship chained and
shackled to the sugar machinery of the Santo Domingo’s
night that sweeten the grave not yet old enough to be
forgotten by the yet unborn who shall come to rage their
discovered plot with an independent breath calling then to
the fore front of the house of the negroid commissioned
sun
The end is always near there but for fortune may go you
or I the antagonism climate of escaped employment is the
advocate of adolescent Gods when youth was their 173
repressible glory passing over the unknown force of a
guaranteed cityscape caught in a window of the wind
Don’t cause me blind when the eyes have run out of time
when the currents of a mortal gigantic curiosity is rotting
on the cross of surgical strength do not call me to the
triumphant nostalgia for everything reprehensible and
innocence for I will only be disappointed by the
scrupulous phosphorescence silent issuing from the
original throat that cries out I am all that I can be on the
honest judgment of the constellation
Man of the high cities and man of the low lands the last
man’s man have yet to be born in the rumor of a flower in
the absolute solstice silence that gives birth to the original
sediment of the weight of blood the bullet flight to its
found end to the last man lonely with the sacrifice of
vegetation cascading down the weariness of the
wilderness where is found the outrageous noisy shudder
that grows on the skin of the proliferating apocalypse of a
savage consciousness found in the collapses prison of the
skin 179
Are you the man who is sniffing out the tree of life the
fragile inquisitor’s loyalty that take place in the exhumed
hollow mirage kept for the keeping against a marvelous
blue delirium let loose in the wild impulses red rallying
cries that will push you over the edge of the intertwining
steps leading down to the depth where the memory of
doubt contemplate its own consistency are you the
beautiful and curious green altitude of being human
before the houngan’s dazzled by the odious Oricous flight
across the strictures of the regulation of the body’s
jurisdiction with its command of possibility its sterile
breath under the expired beauty of the ready rain running
around and aground the brown dirt of the earth where
purple passion push aside the yellow yarrow’s low
growth against the tough tongue of the wind
The art of painting with a tooth pick and speaking poems
into a thimble tremor in the body of the last sacred hidden
haunt where art is kept till its time to be brought into the
light ignored by Negros’s’ stringent punishment issued by
the advantages unanimously rejected bloodline that
conjure up a persistence consuming its way into the deep
down well where water is worth all of its familiar falling
from the spine of a swelled cloud raging across the
drunken sky drunk on the degradation of a prayer spoken
into cupped hands of an immense begging for salvation
the rain can not drown itself in the susurration flooding of
its motion for ever seeking its level taking its form from
the pothole that holds it rain of the raucous treasure rain
of the kinship of madness the unleashed laughter of rain
the greenish hour of rain falling and mounting upon itself
rain on rain violence of a cracked and busted open sky the
resounding tiny rivers of rain to the ant’s view in the
kernel hour of a quivering rain electrified by the cloud’s 180
discharged
Part VI.
Part VII.
March roars and roams in like a courageous confounded
lion drenched and grounded its wild willful winds dance
Baryshnikoving around bold buildings and budding trees
defecting till the nature of Spring is naturalized by young
booming branches of wailing weakened winter it is as if
as the angry anemometer angels are drunk on the other
side of the wanting winds that work their wraparound will
to the name frame billowing to meet the streets on their
own terms they seem not to want to invent or intervene as
if their beat back blowing is motion enough to keep the
kite of our high flying desired above the common fray
that insult the common commands of being alive their
constancy is of such faith that every time the wind calls
something of my breakaway breath its bridge for words
fall and die before the eyes of the holy prophets of certain
conditions speaking of the purity of the wincing windage
of the wind blown pass the arrangement’s compensation
of walking the earth softly issued by the giving of God’s 216
will where nothing passes unknown where the inanimate
grace of a face wonder through the maze of the majestic
city where the angles and demons conspires together their
eternal earning jealousies of our free wills to trick us up
Night comes to St. Louis in all the silenus ear silent that it
can muster it wrap itself around the rusted fire escapes of
abandon buildings it come up out of the guttural gutters
and from underneath park cars it gives weight to the
nervous neon ghastly glow it reflect in the underbrush of
bushes it limit the light of the street lamp glow into a
circle that feebly shows the dim color of cars asleep in a
row it tell most birds to hush their flight but give free rein
to rabbets and catholic cats and poor skinned possum and
rambunctious raccoons to roan in search of fallen food
the sleeplessness of St. Louis under the escape anguish of
angles is ready to get its grove on within this night that is
abandoned by the moon by the fragile face moon of solid
rock have lost its stolen light taking on the silent of dance
cutting the rug under which the dirt of our misdeeds are
swept under under the cover of darkness the night people
comes to fruitful fruition they have slept the leaning light
away and now are refreshed to reengage themselves in
the chutzpah church of the dark that thumb its nose at the
sun that can not know all the doings of man like the
sexual wave that move from coast to coast time zone to
time zone in the momentary movement of the two a.m.
shutting of the bars and night clubs of the night’s
westward movement never homeless at the twenty four
hour dinner at two A. M. the bar patrons come for a spot
to eat to fill their alcoholic bellies that have danced with
fulgurating sweat lighting up the dance floor they have
come to fill their bellies with ham and eggs in the
albumen night before resuming the festival of darkness
out on the town slowly St. Louis turns into the eastern
light where the street lights loose their focus this feeble
attempt of man grows weak till it is excerpt by the light
of the objectionable sun reflected in the muddy
Mississippi racing pass the levee where now the bars are 222
swept clean and lay asleep against the rhythm of the river
Part IX.
262
I say here is my body laid on the grassy bed bare and
brown down by the dew that touch me through and
through to reach you yet I am not wet but like the note of
a fife sounding with life with all of its longing for feeding
I strip myself bare I have a hundredfold of emotions
slumbering in my skin I am the spent element of praise
that goes its way toward the infancy of infinity in the
heart of my breath rest the grace of a dark race that waits
my poetic wakening into the breath of the immaculate
yet all too human flow full of the wounds that surround
the flesh of the same name that share the air with trees my
bad and good are understood by the motherhood of nature
my part within her heart flooded with blood the fresh
flesh of the marvelous all of us children of the same God
conceived on the eve of the great beginning all mindfully
meek all divine from first breath to death all pray the
tasks we ask that our divinity be distilled that we be filled
with the holiness as one in nature as we are one of a kind
in mind we find that we are blinded by the flesh that will
do each other harm by miles and miles of the frontline of
war we assault the sky and kill at will and break the steel
of buildings with our bombs where the boom abound who
care that bare war should wage in this age of the stillborn
enlightenment of the self we are the children of a God
that wear trees in its hair yet we still believe that the dead
Gods still care free yourselves o men of mine let the Gods
of old take their rest they have up to now serve us well
but they are worn out
The blacks are like doves in love like the Blue Jay’s blue
against the pillow of the sky like Mississippi pecan skin
youth in the brownness mispronounced as black now a
day the black are home spun with their backs to the past
of darkness they are like the ink of promiscuity caught in
a knockout like the humble muscles hard with the
calluses of their history the blacks are intoxicated with
the music of mushrooms gowned in the darkness of their
skins the blacks are inexhaustible in their powerful
absence they are caught in the corners of a geodesic dome
with its strength with its motion toward the multicolored
triangular movement of a three-sided knife used to cut
Americus into its segregated pieces the blacks are caught
in the high yellow illusion of privileges and perjures
against the tarnished copper of a penny
267
I long when a black God shall bare-footedly climb down
from the Mississippi pecan tree and give us the salvation
that we seek or the innocence ancestral God shall be
reborn from the savory salvation meat of a dark belief no
longer moaning the landscape of our spirituality
incorruptible by the incessant pushing of another man’s
God the blacks born to the servitude of the cross it is a
privacy to me held in the grove of our love that move
toward the thought of the divinity that our fathers sought
in the last persistency of our past cast me fast to the heart
of thee let me not forget again the then history of his
story told between the whip and the cross that we ply and
glorify with the grace of our dark face where we dwell
where blackness ring the knell of the unique brotherhood
the trustee of the bold blood the executor of children give
the child a pill to stop his childish ways concerto plays
down the desires to play at learning the noisy alphabets
ADD ADHD detoxing the taxing deed of a done deal of
the demands of the diggers where the streets are painted
with passer-byer where the ocher dawn of morning air
pollution rise and stain the sky in the windless wilderness
of germination as the tyrannical caressed promises
advance toward the vertiginous dance that remain with its
drunken blemishes tiding the perturb degradation of an
ensuing suicide held in time the last of time will be
bowled down the deserted streets where sunflowers are
placed around the moods of the wind blown from Africa
found in the mannered masculinity of poetry spoken to
the moon wanted for assault found in the fine old worry
in the final who you are now reach out your hands and
join them together to praise the brotherhood of man that
can not go as far as the million man mile stuck in the
streets of the night’s debris that accept the stared skin
suddenly found beautiful beside the pestilence’s bloated
light pushing along the business end of a world wisp me
away pass the sugar canes the cotton the corn the 268
soybeans I aint got nothing at all so throw me out into the
streets to meet the convocation of my maker with its tired
trials omnipotent within the monopoly of beauty where
the bones that wear the skin as an ill fit where the fat of
my heart is calling for a freer hand when I can not see
through the boredom kept in the measure of your hollow
hands and the night is caught as an orphan who knows
that it is time to fill his life with a thousand pigeons on
the wings his voice proclaiming that the force-fed
pestilence of the intelligence and strength of a rusted
machine is held tightly in the production’s curiosity lost
in the mechanic of the rain that wanes its way pass the
last soldier of the soul crucified on the cross of last
night’s moon light using the last change of what it thinks
that we should know all about the easy way out of life the
way that the sun is set upon us and everything in the
world with their histories is aged to perfection and I have
sold my shoes to be alone with you to see if you care to
bother both my botch work and the bottle that keep me
company O darkest of the blacks know that your skin is a
prize where the black blood of Americus is cut to a
lighter hue cut like weed with oregano as coke with
baking soda as the baby’s milk with sugar water to you
my high yellow brothers the other blood that flows in
your veins proclaim the trials and tribulations of our
beautifully born sisters mothers of the strength of our race
that birth the innocent bastards born by the grace of God
and the white man that took the liberties and bodies of
our sisters in the age of slavery count yourself within the
harmony of our race our open arms seeks to embrace all
the yellow and brown hues of the mellow yellow we shall
no more say black get back but lift every voice and sing
the multicolor color darkness of our skin
O mother of the race the earth birth your soul once stolen
by the reek of slavery that did seek to keep you in the
gloom of a candle lit room with news paper as wall paper
to keep the winter out you morn the still born touch that
have forgotten to mean as much with the weak meek love
that can not live without you without a doubt your history
is one of abuse but you have risen above the fray to take
your place among the canon of American women so do
not moan as you sat alone upon the throne of a smart
heart as the aloof bird fly above the roof you fling your
wings beneath the loud cloud that flows pass the melody
of a rivulet under the sunset of slavery carved though our
race keep to your diva pace the heavens open up in your
smile O queen O mother O lover O sister in the name of
men I solute you in the ancientness of your skin a birther
of dark men in the support that you give in the
archipelago of your emotional strength the many island at
your fingertip the skyscrapers of your backbone your
triumph may it last long may the anguish of your desire
be gone to neglect you is to neglect myself know that you
are the mother of the oldest race
Part X. 277
351
Go pass the Biled As Sudan that have lost its forest and
lakes each tree plucked by the hands of the Cushite God
each lake drunk by the thirty throat of an Nubian God till
all that was left was the burning sand God that have
forgotten it own numbing name under the burning hired
hands of the sun God that look down upon the working of
man and care not that all our doing is inferior in the great
scope of things being things on earth God of the ever
lasting blessing of the sun God of the trees that know thee
God of the seas that throw thee Gods of the springing
forward of the self-flattery spring the simmering slumber
of the sweating summer the falling back raining leaves of
fall and white land locked wonder of winter where the
Gods goes rejoicing in the horizon’s triumphant shouts of
joy the divine offering of the friends festivals of the Gods
the coming forth into the inundated land of God coming
forth from thy mother belly as a beatified being of Gods
God of the regularity of the underworld where the dead
with their right and truth that judge the entering into the
waggishness of our weakness and the going out of our
stridency of our strength burning in the lake of double
fire where the serpent of mankind swallow its tail to tell
that the circle of life has no end birth and death do not
suffer the pains of the Gods that rule from the throne of
double beauty lean and long they keel the wheel to endure
the cares of man that drown them wash them away from
the bones of a smart heart left along when the truth of
youth brawling in the streets of a storm’s weathering the
face of a place in the peace of the heart where in the
corner there is a land traveled by the island of flame that
burns open a distinguished passage established by the
way of souls in our lives we know only all that we know
the life long knolled knowledge fettered to our soul in the
single-sighted vigorousness of language of a infant in the
forgotten speech of tomorrow telling its sudden nostalgic
memory found in the blonde pawn shop where the second 352
coming waits upon the gravedigger to deliver the
enlargement of their absent worm-eaten premeditations
under the distance of the sun is to be found the
complacencies of a convulsive monsoon of a triangle
tenderness of prostitution accepting the coins of silence
as payment for service given he disrobe with all the
fragile beauty of the architect of an organic orchestration
of an orchid he disrobe and violent silence flows from the
sensitive intimacy of the blazing motion of his hands for
the price paid he is a giving man his sensitive breast
harnessed the air where the blood of the sunset rusting to
the sea is stalled by the imprint of a river running alone
side the self doubt of a virginal sleep that weep the
catastrophic sabotage of the judgment of the wind the
stone of his heart is alive with the bark of his legs and the
moon of his eyes the river of his tongue the roots of his
veins the blossom of his spermatic plexus the seeds of his
sperms woo him again and again and again for a good
time call 555-5555 he is alive within his promontory
rolling into the strangler sea muzzled by its needs to be
free in the hundred years of contemplating the weight of
its bouncy when he weep cup your hands shut to contain
the wreckage of his tears drink sea-deep the nakedness
notice of the salty flagrant of the harmonies from his eyes
then shall you spy the wisdom of the immense far away
sky where life unknown knows of its own are we alone
are we the highest life that nature can muster in all the
bounties of existent poets scientists and priests the trinity
must gather together to answer the indicative question of
an emphatic excitement that hints at a pseudo-
philosophical value of the pious modernity of knowing
are we made in the metaphorical image of a rhetorical
idea are we singular in our knowledge of the Gods are we
plural apart of the paradoxical question of what
accomplished life means to be the poet pose these
question to be answered throughout the vivid ages that 353
shall come to break the authoritative holy structurally
scripture into the pleasure prejudices of an exceptional
critical effort of the fragmented garrulous slippery slop of
myth making
Poet of the lazy hazy jazz symphonic glass ear that hears
the humble hubble bubble blister blithesome words
breaking the woody wood wind woozy woof wool of the
word mongering mouth I am such a man before men that
plays the placid plain and planned plasticity I can with
my wordy workmanship to wake the words man under
the fire of an open mouth that the God of rain put out the
flame of your intercourse is the food of libation the
smoke of your breath the cinder of your tongue all an
offering from the Gods poet within the integrant plan of 375
nature a plan without fault by the blind eyes of a new
born in the small hour of war an Iraq poet birthing the
water of a tear poet of the gigantic embittered innate
inferiority of the music of red in the troubled anger of
blue the sky is weeping weeping wondrous wild wide-
anger wiggles the way of the cross where the weasel
word’s is a workable weather worm-like in its world
power where the air that wrap us share its song with the
clear new water though the eye of a needle where
yesterday’s breeze seize the home grown brown foam
down by the fern that burn to be understood the decrease
deceased shadows are running away from the brownness
of a mountain pass with its audience of rocks aspens and
ponderosa pines the introduction of the wind is welcomed
by the sound track of lips and the dancer’s fingers point
to the dramatic discovery of an illumination of motion
over whelming with its willingness to generalize the
determined innocence of a new midnight held in the
darkness of daylight without its sunlight I fill in my
emotion with alcohol with Colt 45 with the joint with the
defense of a smile I acknowledge the extreme importance
of force and form of the size of a brilliant thumb pressed
to the immortal aggregate of the creator of organs the air
is alive with the dreamt logics of a flower that bore the
deplore ear of stone alone in the wilderness of a thought
the wooded fold of mountain bold in the tiptoe hold of a
wild rose that blast the born fast bloom castled to the next
text written on the steep and deep will that is still bearing
down on the brother who is my lover in the life the
mentioned intimate of the anthropomorphic figurines
Jesus the question is could he read and write the syllable
of pleasure did he smell his own musk in his desert walk
where he relied neither on the eyes or ears as a measurer
of his decoratively blazing fire of an ocean of mountain
did he have bad breath these questions ask is no
disrespect to get to the humanness of the man of peace 376
and grace man can not but to nick pick at the ten
commandments to commit the fine enjoyable utterance
that touch the evil found in the breath of the evil chant of
the word nigger nigger nigger heard in the mulatto
prominence of Denver where the Hispanic and black and
white mix are fighting to be seen of one race multiracial
race is the race of the new Americus they are the
inherence
Poet teach as you teach that all living things are divine
and know it in your bones go along for the sake of going
explore the unknown travel the untrodden troubled path
your poems are lights that illuminate the working of the
of the old human soul draw into yourself all that there is
to know take on the questions that blows through the
streets and make them your own through all the year’s
leaves and tears that beam down the brown dreams found
beyond all the youth of truth that are the landmark star of
their own life bloom from the womb of your hand the
unseen noise of girls and boys out about the world in their
motion of play with zest in their breast of youthful joy
wild in the art of being young the art part of smart of the
wrought thought obey the free play of the choice voice
that make and take the wide side of joy sacrifice yourself
to the knowing of the people be their valentine valid vital
voice show them the chubby choice of the world furled
into itself its self centered desire its sweep deep hurled
into the steep mountains be one with the less distress
success of the peoples forgetfulness be the mythological
trickster attack the common conventions that keeps us
down around the bottom boredom of the every day worry
worship of being alive in the law-abiding urban canyons 385
of civilized structures where man’s free instant instincts
are represent repressed become a holy fools for your
God’s sake against the mundane social society that
control us owe us mold us in its cold concrete embrace
bodies fast forward forth take note of the agonizing chaos
of your society that we have come to far to escape wait
upon the lowest man’s needs to know that his life in the
crowed city is not all for not let your poems glow as they
blow across the ears of the words scented years be one
with your pen as if it’s a sword in battle more intimate
then the gun get up close and personal with friend and foe
seek you to protect the protesting rebel’s sensibility and
ability slay the beast of conformity that greedily eat the
romance of the common man suffer you not the self
mockery self doubt of the hero as victim vital is your
quest for self in the concrete forest of metal and reflective
glass giving the new light redeem your ego in a Godless
universe with its holy indifference for the intellect of man
half fool half visionary seek to reconstruct the society that
for lack of change and the relentless dependencies of the
procurement of money bruise and brand the soul with the
dull ordinary and the conventional mood you bare the
burden imposed by you habit of the pen of being the
redeemer of the ordinary man in the loneliness and
suffering you will be made the scapegoat for the myth
making goal set before you go exceeding the limits of the
self toward the mythic salvation of a revolutionary vision
go to depict the new reality that call to you from the
breath of the muses set yourself free from the chains of
the order of the state and sing the revolutionary act that
can but save the civil society of man from the drudgery
that beseeches him be you made in the image of the Gods
and go God like throughout the land where a cultural
crisis rules the day seek out the maladjustment that cloth
you worship the neurotic judgment of your patois pious
protagonist heart necessary to combat the mass society of 386
mass culture of the TV sedating the vision of selfhood do
battle with the heroes of financial action that will stall
and steal steer us into increasing their wealth transcend
the conflict between yourself and society to transform
them both into a new worthy vision love the world in
spite of its hatred and indifference toward you do not let
them drive you to the slicing sideline of literal life in the
sum of the skin turn the mounded material of life into the
stiff stuff of your art at the service of the common
normality of man