then came soft rain
the moon hates me
i like using nails
park avenue pumpkin
the hungry cat
the people on the train
papers caught up in a hubbig blow surely to come uplock all doors, board windows shut.then came soft rain.bolt up back, nail wall’s ruts, fromprying wind; save rattling cuptime to take stock: to hurry up.then came soft rain.spice-filled scent, sea-bird lamentdarkness stumbled forth,(then went.).sea descends, scarred surf foam vents,then came soft rain.
the moon hates me,and i hate the moon.the water bathes me, and imake it black.it’s spinning light, goes down the spout, presses passed to meet sea out(it’s not exactly what i had i mind.).the moon hates me,and i hate the moon. the strawberrymoon,(and i hate it back.).
I like to use nails, that are already there, as If somebody else, had it all figured out: had workedTheir way through it; the thought, the idea of where a something should be: (less work for me).As I sat watching her picture,Which stubbornly refused to fit, On the radio, in the kitchen, Where we both eat and sit One bone autumn night,With her tucked, far away, A tiny white nail, on the door, made my day.
it’s autumn in new york.pigeon people waiting;others blow about likebrittle leaves, in the street.(yesterday, I saw a pumpkin selling jewelry on park avenue.).park avenue pigeon people,pumpkin lady in the street.park avenue pumpkin.(rush hour 1972)
1. the watcherWhen thinking comes, a frequent visit A frantic pace, (where am ‘I’ in it) Am I the watcher or the watched? The talker, or the listener.‘Who is there?’, (Is it me),Or is it someone I should fleeHow often down this street I’ve marched:The whistled, or the whistler.Arms outstretched, palms held highIn short length I come to realize whyWhen thinking came, a frequent guest,I couldn’t get one moment’s rest.2.the talkerWhen talker talks, the listener listens A brisk thought walk, where’s ‘I’ in this? Chasing sticks thrown by mindDogcatcher or the catched? ‘Who goes there?’, (Is it I),Any hope to know this rhyme?Un-hoed remains this hill of mineAll caught up, yet uncatched.I plant my feet in hallowed groundOf voices, the familiar soundDiscussions that will steal the space Of being grounded in this place.3.the hungry catWhile hungry cat sits eyeing mouse‘Other’ and ‘I’ slog through the houseStrong Father ‘I’ cries Mother ‘Other’,Turn in pursuit, chase one another.Problem ‘is’, could not exist Without a complex birth like thisMasked and drunk force of despair,Observant self sucks out all air.Hypnotic background, absent wealthLess grain of sand, (observant self)Sees all; reports, a complex hand, Sure none is missed by High Command.
the people on the train, in the middle of theday, in the middle of the week, are sad,(she said.).at least in brooklyn, I think it’s true; not sureabout manhattan, (in the middle of the week.).you know what I mean, the people on the train, in the middle of the day, in the middle of the week,you know what I mean, the people on thetrain, in the middle of the day, in the middle of the week,the people on the train, in the middle of the day, in the middle of the week: (the people on the train.).the people on the train, in the middle of the day, in the middle of the week: the people on the train.the people on the train in the middle of the day, in the middle of the week are sad,she said.you know what I mean, the people on the train, in the middle of the day, in the middle of the week.you know what I mean, the people on the train, in the middle of the day, in the middle of the week,you know what I mean, the people on the train, in the middle of the day, in the middleof the week,the people on the train, in the middle of the day, in the middle of the week: (the people on the train.).
heat bug waits so patiently,he wiry peds voraciously, lies on his back, deck steaming, wet his carcass, red lamps face, and shed.say:tick ticky ticky ticky!,tick ticky ticky ticky!tick ticky ticky ticky,ticky ticky ticky tick! (studiously approaching, we, with cautious stooped step creaking, croaching)till, sensing it was quite enough, he flies directly, (almost touching):”solzhenitsyn! solzhenitsyn!”, we shouted out (for no good reason), thrown, tossed, dispelled,dissolved, repelled, broadcast in all direction: for we did not know what heat bugs were, (and what was solzhenitsyn?).back every each new age, or so(someone keeps track of these things, you know.).six stretchful years for child to grow,inside the earth, they sleep below, then:drawn by draw to ugly things, one and again, we form a ring till heat bug thinks,”that’s close enough” flips right side up, whirrs buzzdust wings,”sholtzsinetsin!”, we all scream: thendissolve, in four directions, (like the wind.).
squid eye visitor bagged and missingwhite-cold airboxlandlocked prisonboot-black oil filleddeath stare squinterfish food fanfarenight time mission(i look away, and shut the door quickly.).squeezing mast rotsea brimmed travellerbrineful bustle,handling jailercreatures outstretched, fish-inked, fingers, (a wrinkle, pointing:a rust stained sinkfull.ink.
Body starts it’s slow unwind,Begins to end it’s slog through timeAnd one day (soon?), the spark subsidesOne pulpy, flesh cell, at a time.A clock’s relentless tock, it ticks Like ballpark lights that timed shut click oneGlowering tower at a time, one nightWhen you least suspect a change in sight.Who knows when that hour comesOr how fast the play of their life runsSome insights are not meant for us:Like, finally, where I rest, sublime.(tue 6:26 am)