1996 Road Movie Back East Part 6

1996 Road Movie Back East Part 6






keeping on
against my feelings, this story of self--
inside job, what one speaks to one’s self about
writing the road, the contemporary story,
Natural-born Killers,

way out-- mixed signals, this circuitous quest
and Lost Highway,
run down into the dirt,
reaching to height,
I do not want to die here,
that the world’s way is one way

and I go so far, but I have my own--
idea of soul, to satisfy
bathed in this space,
and this moving picture, an affair of places, I feel
as though I am going to die--

always going to die, that’s it!
like this lump in my throat, feels like fatal disease
traveling on towards home, through Louisiana rain,
Alabama rain, through the southern humidity,
towards home grasping for the rock of home

dashed upon--wave after wave
remembering the yellow rabbit
brush, blue sky, green against red, earth
of New Mexico design, brings me back
coloring the place, already

but now, I’m driving highway culture,
East, now and I NEED TO PEE
I have to begin the search, losing the freedom
relying on Burger King--
I’ll be happy-- to see, my old friends,

I miss, but then the doubts, I’m so out of it,
out there, here, the
tightening spaces
make obvious the social ills
having become the life,

of the east,
the built upon built,
upon tension of--
the power politics involved,
becoming savvy in this Art,

the painting’s sensuality, so old fashioned
in that we don’t have the depth
for those big paintings any more
and the fashion changes to small,
“A Good Thing,” they say

the profane world is the subject
what we can see, that’s trouble enough
forgetting that inner space
although it is obvious
that it is becoming the only space

left, the new West the reaches
of the Romantic inner distance,
the debased art, the empty church
everything for sale,
in the what’s new

next economy, picking through for Poetry,
“negotiating rapture” I’ve heard it said
beyond innocent transcendental reach,
my poem repeats ,
un- original thought

if this was all there was, I’d end the poem here--
in desperation
add glamour to that dispare
never seen reality, the ordered poem
what Long Island had been

looking for new poem, to keep going,
flipping through the fashion magazines,
having replaced art becoming the art,
next thing,
down runway,

keeping on, stacks of new names
new places, next place
never new, for long
used, on-- on,
pass-- pass

but I keep on, wanting to be part
of, maybe, I had
escaped that feeling of failure,
leaving last year, the reticence, to come back
and maybe that was the failure of my trip

back, and black
cloud on my head, traveling along with me
my poem dispelled the clouds
and still does when I have it there
in front of me, and that’s a success,

the poetry soothed me,
I'm supposed to be beyond, the mildew
and deepening
snow, the snow man
to whom things speak

and nothing myself beholds, the nothing
that is not there
and the nothing that is, nature and nothing,
me to nothing
death and change,

my smallest creation,
I revel in this, change--
the same bare place, becoming
transparent eyeball, I am nothing
I see all, this crystal death

the loneliest air, not less was myself,
the compass of that sea
tossed about
beyond what I can stand,
these are the words that save!

defeat into victory, I go on, I was the world
in which I walked
I found myself more true,
more strange, beheld
her solitary there,

for there she sang, innocence
the maidens song, could have
no ending
I sing beyond
what transcendence, wholly critic

body wholly body
fluttering,
empty sleeves,
constant cry,
the old mother--

what is this spirit?
for it was the spirit
that we sought--
and knew, content to know
our element, is of ice,

a wintry air sighs for me,
night wind,
shouts for me loudly
Dazzling and tremendous,
how quick,

now and always, the sunrise
would kill me, if I could not
now and always
send it from out, from me
the sea

a power
over the sea
the poem
a forever cycling power of the mind
over a universe of death

the blank, blocks the new world,
the poets mind
over death,
it was her voice,
that made the sky

acutest, at it's vanishing,
beauty, Oh, blessed rage
the order, the maker's rage, for assembly
the scholar of one candle,
he opens the door, (the reduction fails)

and he feels afraid,
roads not taken,
packing the things, that last, to succor
the mind, remember, go over, again
another round about cycle

ordering, the possible, the damage,
the toll taken, building back
the leaves
the waves-- through the sand castle
the voyage slipping, clouds

anastazi texture--
surfaces manipulated
remembered, to give clue
to this world I make of
life, through dream,

keeping on
don't let it fail, keep on,
follow the simple unending dream
of that new world, follow
the round, the wheels turning

eternal scene
the mountain’s peaks
stepping from summit
exhilarating crown!
up once more, to greet the day

poem of the mountain Sierra, the Joshua Tree desert,
of the Ocean Pacific
in the New York winter, the library
--keeping big, making
life, flaking from my eyes

the mountains
the jays
that rare tanager
flashing--
Buddha mountains
no-thing
sno-thing
blue haze
becoming

the phone rings, what do I want
to hear? “you, need me” but a recorded
advertisement of our entangled world,
fighting to stay, Oh, I’m off--
into the palms, the flash

before my eyes, the eyes
on the street, the fear they display,
anger, the fear, music pounding,
the insanity, copying
the reality, what myth--

reality copying reality,
swerve and dream changes--
reality imagination,
so, far away, the ringing of
the phone, death unanswered

wrong end of telescope, no one there
an empty fifth
blank--
I reject this,
I chose life,

looking forward to the new shows
happening this year
walking
through Corot,
after brutal reality-- of the old loft

at least the trucks are not rumbling
--here in this tiny apartment,
even some sunlight,
quiet, becoming resigned,
still older

trying to feel the dream,
spreading in the sun
when I’M STOPPED, I die,
the money came and I’m off
into the REVERIE,

thrilled beyond belief, to be alive,
greeting the dawn,
come with me, I’m full of it!
Achilles to Crispin,
into a classic space

to modern cartoon, Davey Crockett,
raccoon hat, into the hills,
Hopi way
must, keep up
the Indian design,

the flute drifting through crystal space,
unending, wind of my soul,
of our souls
walking in beauty
broken pieces

in my eye
the Hopi way
the mystery of that eye
high up in the wood
glinting-

alive
my own-- clearing
to see-- choosing sight
keep on with dream
I’m off--

before the sweeping tide of reality
the politic of resenting
belief,
against the desert
that oldest self, before an even older god
the aesthetic dignity, a covering angel

of the terrible beauty
NECESSITY
I stopped, once--
twice, the bird
I saw an eternity

in both
stops
in the music, that eye,
the bird, I thought it watched, me--
cocked its head

I trying to understand? it flew
through the stream of sun
paint flooding through,
a rhythm of mantra
revolving

woven varied design, blown apart,
the center will not hold,
over again, never quite right,
shards of
Indian way,

each year it was harder to make the painting
that would lift one out of despair,
de Kooning was the one to beat
skating along in a heaven,
color and light,

playing out the line
the shards
fly
across gray
ground of being, making

shape bright,
the same light, or the light
of a explosive sunset, going,
abstracted figures
see the shapes formed,

to see again, happy day,
clouds skipping
across the sky
1st order, clarity, height of order
kaleidoscope of color,

chosen out of desire
set against this desperation,
heaving its breast in the corner,
the echo
of the original bang, the desert air,

the trailer door
flies open in the breeze,
unending, gods outside,
of oneself
the eye, I search for,
I see myself

besides this mess of words,
they won’t save me
decorated with war, seeing beauty,
the hero bluest
another revolution,

the leaves, the empty chapel
a flurry of feathers
in the yellow light
laundry, the five flights of steps,
a paper,

the coffee, the studio,
a friends dance party,
lunch,
gesso the new canvas,
the news, dinner,

bed,
TV, Charlie Rose--
Oh, the OPEN ROAD
ahead, hold on to that dream,
I read my poem,
defending self

apology for,
afraid to see who I’m addressing--
and the words just fell like lead
or flew like fluff
what I loved,
FELT at what I saw

on my deathbed,
Giotto’s blue
the HERO, keeping on
I have my paintings,
life, ‘...aimed at my family

like weapons!’ I heard myself,
telling a friend
one evening,
I’m right, you’re wrong,
no shading of intelligent life,

sounding like my father
after all this
our innocence in Pennsylvania,
dreams of Eden, of ideal lives, chipped away
economically and then rocked by sickness
and death, scattering us all

into our guarded beliefs,
I started, to see the drift
into a narrative like reality, of confession
of what mistakes,
of what I'd better do now

our time not strong enough
to produce another
Benton mural, laughable, you say
and in desperation
I cling to such a laugh--

Disney forms, approach art
recipes for strange concoctions,
urging unseen fiction
or myths, turning,
cultural adventure,

setting off
once more
the Bridge,
high on tip toe
on to the es--studio! there the work

of the WORLD, to be done,
set beside EARTH
--to keep ones feet planted
within the place, revolved,
telling some story

yet unclear. the Indian (ME)
native us all, American,
beauty in the face of death,
night and day,
revolving a mantra

the colors, the shapes, and line
the different shapes these fragments
thoughts come in relation
perspective, context, changing
light

--now, swerve
the hero reaching, from inside,
sights on distance
coming together, crashing loud,
sound and push

world
of time
revolving
time beyond
keeping on
turning, telling
who we are
or can be
or should be
or-
this circus juggler
in sun
and wind
red and yellow
diamonded

shatter the present
scattering
souls
explorers
in spirits light above--

exorcised
to go on--
cure of
the disappointments

keeping the dream,

the sun
the wind
in the face
the great distance.