1997 Brooken Beauty Marching onward part 2

1997 Brooken Beauty Marching onward part 2






reaching
for lost chance--
sad --disorienting feelings
SoHo, Fashion Capital
feeling adrift,

I’m reading escape, I’m writing
“talking to my self and I’m not alone”
I’m painting-- trying any how
thinking about the mountain
ICE mountain, rip rap,

western poets, inviting me to take leave
from the abstract height,
I come back to
things as they are, the pictures cycle
balance of mind,

a map of the journey
to oceans distance,
Basho’s narrative, to haiku thoughts
distilled
I feel the end of winter giving birth

to a season of arriving
stringing thoughts into one
creating, oneself from pain, that comes--
these cars crossing Houston Street,
watch out!

oh, I thought, ‘er, they, thought I was crazy
telling them about the open heart surgery--
everyone’s first
heart attack-- grossed out by talk of arteries grafted
from thighs and Dacron hearts,

the sparrows tweeting, picking up crumbs
from around the passed out guy under--
a pile of soggy cardboard
I’m walking,
I’m writing poetry,

headed for the Bridge
I feel crazed telling them,
that he said “he needed a drink--”
walking the boulevard, Layfayette-- Walt
touched by the great man, a beggar sought--

the rabbit hole in green hills, windy woods
of a home, a beginning for a journey
stepping around trash,
discards-- a coffee cup rolling--
stepping aside to let the cars pass

the Bridge ahead, I drove myself too far
beyond a rationale of behavior, a mess
too much money thrown to no avail
is insanity breeding the edge,
not what is claimed

except, this pain, writing on
stumbling from the curb
speeds a depth
that propels a memory forward to a desire
of that whole,

grasped and a future
one
in thought
and ideal
release from this pain, rehearsed guilt

collapsing
into SOLIPSISTIC action,
out of gear,
out of control
lack of self control

my beloved freedom
careening through the streets
in greasy coat
yes, I’ve been here before,
scary thoughts, not able to retreat, restore order

sit in the sun, the earth revolving, hoping to jump
on once again, mythos of pumping flowers,
in colors
I’m rude to put this on you,
comfort I’m no good at

see I’m, transparent, I tell you
what I’m thinking
of, it’s OK but it swings
wildly and watch out
for the pain I feel I flail,

slinging shattered glass
knives cutting at limbs
I’m in hell-- a black gray
sodden form in a doorway,
tomb, wanting in

this home of concrete, never me,
death and I
create beauty, feels soft
and exaggerated urge
to create grows over this failure

face forgotten, among
the tourists here at home
the rumble of a subway
through snow
in hung over stumble down Broadway,

the pigeon flap
car horn, faint color, there--
magnolia, I stop to note
I’d go to the woods
I’m here only for the candle

the high candle
lighting the depths of
canyon street and sky
dark thoughts
slip away,

the opening of the sky,
damp dusk sunset
appropriate of my thoughts,
the still flag, rises to flap
gold flickering

on white buildings
the wind picking up,
brisk snap-- the flag
jets that way,
an opening

I-- do, remember you,
this 100 years, hence
my stride quickens, your spirit in a cloud
the glory from way low
the beam spreading

this spring’s evening
moon on the cusp
Now Hear!
surrounded by choking cars tourists--
brush me by

I’m writing poetry
jostled--
another crazy person
identifies with me,
I walk at speed

scribbling across the page
The light of the West,
opens onto me

jays flutter
through
glimpse of
swirling
design

armed with poetry
fragments
I feel I can leave,
I have enough of myself,
gathered to me

of Heroic epic character, the blue man
planting sunflowers, Johnny Appleseed
limping, limping
wounded, keeping on
bolstering dream

Florida god, swimming the emerald sea,
the oats blowing gold
Louisiana adventure,
Texas familiarity and blue bonnet
on through,

Indian’s design and there the
Nevada distance
the grand emptying of thought,
California then, Eden
this earth,

I saw the butterflies all
revolved in painted order
and---
still to pack the boxes
the books again--off to the store to sell

something still to propel a dream
oh, I cried in sadness
of failure of--
I can’t say it-- maybe I’m
wrong, just got it all backwards?

the lagoon and sea
presenting circles,
surrounding black
paint swoosh,
recognizing, bird height --

flickering
evening light, scattering
of yellow and blue
stripe,
the leaves

all through the seasons
west Across America

cartoon me
representing
whatever
depth
of Singer, Sun’s
Villa diamonds
cycling to dark
new round

of West
questing
Sunflower
Tanager bird
held up

crumbling
fragments
float
up rebuilding
again, again

it was a illusion--
that we were ever alive--
I just go on--
“de Kooning died today...”
throwing down the paper

taking off for the west
the desert,
for Joshua Tree
through the eastern gray, beige
55 miles mile an hour

suburban sprawl and farm--
I’m from here,
but can’t remember
another beginning, to yet another round

find something this time?
I’ve already done that, been there, I think
who am I? still I can see in the mirror
of what I’ve been, hard to change that now,
what I’ve been

Stepping out
from the Brooklyn Bridge--
into the rolling hills
the journey begun
into blue mountains

he was out there, my old impossible father
watching a baseball game
out to pasture, the battle ground
of my youth
Gettysburg, PA, soldiers maneuvering

through the electric map, and cyclorama
of cub scout days, we took the car tour,
lunched at Burger King,
talking of high finance and lost chance,
where did this head line come from?

Easter morning
“Scholars down play the role
of Jews in Christ’s Crucifixion”
starting in on my lost soul, God or the Big Bang
one or the other, choose,

“cancel my subscription to the resurrection”
I’m off once more, leaving the 30,000
dead behind, he died for my sins?
“it’s to kill the self to be aware of others”
join my club you are either with me

or against me, this club of ignoramuses--
just say yes, yes, yes yes.
Tying up my sneakers, my coat and hat
becomes Crispin, off on the Jaunt
yearly couplet to Spring, becomes

awakening to the call
the green bud, unwrapped in the sunshine
against the still mournful sky,
crinkled fingers reaching
gray blue brown

last years leaf skitters across the highway
sun flickering through black trees
I’ve seen it in the movies,
the sun
ultimate reality,

the flower, it’s copy
the sun

came up
went down

identifying ones mind
becomes the flower
becomes the sun
the hero sun
travels the shades of
brightness
enduring the frost
anticipating warmth

the weather

lengthening shadow
oranges
slides south
leaves
progressing green
summer’s force

March 21, flowering forsythia
through the lime green hills,
powder blue mountains
to southern extreme, this transition is fast
the sun already is too hot

on my fore head green, green
overcoming boney structure
crawling vines, shade and sun ,
browns into green
forsaking-- Mc Donald’s, for enamel pan,

camping stove, tea bags and
stylish travel mug from Pierre La Fond’s
of Santa Barbara
styling in cheap sheik
the soft hills,

dogwood,
apple,
willow
cypress
soft clouds

there, is the cherry explosion
in
dark pine
the full
moon rises

this morning, I saw a meteorite
streak across the sky
a groggy wasp,
fell out of my shirt
I had a dream

Hank being such a good father,
I unbuckle to get this
smoky coat off, stretching,
looking around
Dad must have been 45
when I graduated high school

sunlight’s warmth, nature’s ,
spring time,
benevolent spirit,
the variety of
the weathers--

pulling in after dark, to Florida palms
the headlights searching, falling asleep to
crickets and frogs, raccoons in shadows
eyes lit
full moon in pines, balm and humidity, tossed

into deepest night
the next morning, I’m reorganizing the car,
the mind,
getting out the paints
catching a glimpse,

I hear a cheep-cheep, like in Long Island
and with my binoculars go--
it is! an Osprey on a dead branch tearing
fish between its claws, a silhouette, the emerald water
above another reeling cheep-

cheep, cheep
in green gray haze of parting morning clouds
the humid breeze billowing
red bird-- rudy, rudy
flies through swooping

towhee’s, chink, chink
scratch, scratch in underbrush
scrubby palms rustling chatter-- rising up
shaking out feathers, rising now falling
I’m at home in this world

I think I can paint
relaxing,
a rain thickened and
the windshield rhymed
the Louisiana road, crossing bayou

I wanted to make another painting
but the fog and pouring rain were very Louisiana
I drove through the narrow corridors of southern pine
and mangrove swamp, into the gulf’s low mixing clouds
and finally out into

the clear Texas space
clouds clearing to reveal
wild flower lined roads, bluebells and birds, birds
Austin birds and hills
scissor--tailed flycatcher and paintbrush flowers

and speeding, into the Sun
the west, zipping along, had to stop and paint
such a scene-- mesa like western hill
spotted sky and lupine in wind
a hurried painting, but I was here

a bucket of flowers up on the dash
I am absorbed into all this
writing back home postcards,
of Texas reality
watching, something to happen

driving on small roads,
writing on steering wheel
listening to Bob Dylan, sleeves flying in crisp wind,
Philip Glass, to the low flying cumulus
repeating the thrill and

increasing it
visiting another friend-- a chapter behind now
dreams plowed under, reality of a hard times
a farm, work and one’s life-- a picture hung crooked,
above wainscoting, suffering there in harsh reality

don’t look back
painting my way across America,
planting seed
the new Eden, the new day
continually unraveling,

as I go on, stopping the car ,
to help the turtle cross the road, a mile
or so more, I see
pages scattered across the road,
a trucker’s porno rag flopping

in the breeze, curious to see,
these images, this nakedness
set beside turtle,
the bobbing daisies
the clouds across the sky,

this nagging want exposed
continuing on, what’s behind,
degraded and unseen
no one out there, smoke signal--
ahead on horizon?

mortality in the distance, I speed toward--
stop this foolishness,
death obsession
get involved with life, other peoples dreams
relating myself to others, yes

what books could I read?
against the odds, secrets of life,
leading the way
here on this journey
out there, picture framed

the wide indifference,
sunny sky smoke streaming ahead
long low mesa, striated limestone, big valley
sunstroke and anxious, long
spaces traversed

my mind, hours and hours
and miles across Texas
a rusting windmill
the sun in the west
black and blush-- I remember, that sound

the cry of the peacocks
the dance in the sunset
of bird silhouette, breaking shapes--
I’ve been looking out for the comet
something I’ve never seen

and There! there
I reach for my pen to exclaim,
ice ball crashing, black curve
of horizon, arcing bump
of far mountains

smoke drift in burnt out sky
lines of trucks, taking over the night
tic-- toc, tic of the electric poles
mesquite fuzz struggling beyond
perspective lines

a greyhound bus to LA
I’m scribbling by the car light
a note in my book
a coyote yapping
at the comets 32 million mile

long tail
God, I exclaim
to the nothing that is--
All this driving around
I should find a place to be

I’m getting closer
I see my paintings
black and white
in all this-- swoosh
of space

beyond me
dripping into stars
I must be there
feel, here
my original dream

a place
to be surrounded by
my paintings
the ideas, physical-- all surrounding,
the space around-- free to grab,

gulping after formlessness
a cross on the hill
far away--
someone’s suffering and shame
dreaming of a crown

Big dream in the Desert
Big Desert Dream
El Paso
lower deep, Mexico across the way,
river gorge winding

through a real suffering, brown and crusty,
wind whips across road
and the wide open space, bright sun
glaring on bug strewn screen
the passing mountains in Las Cruces,

I remember
25 years ago driving past these same mountains
back from Mexico
we had lost all our money
gave everything away,

hung over in a dream
of hell, our insides
torn outward to match
the jagged mountains
out the speeding window

still out there
that loneliness, these extreme
mountainous anxieties
sex and death exaggerated
as was our mortality

on an edge, we thrilled to--
in this unforgiven space
profane experience up against
this sacred place, this hellish pole
my attempt to start the world again

the east vanishes into
My Road Movie,
western notebook
I live for this, driving
off the path

through Apache del Bosque
no one here
no birds either silence
the car door slams in the still cold
spring, rainy mist

the cranes already off
to their northern summer,
I continue on to mine
traveling on to make some time,
camping

in the middle of places,
I crawl into the back
of the wagon, swathed in down,
I pull up the designs
my Indian blanket,

over me, moving slightly
in the chill, to glimpse
the comet ,
still out there--
its tail shortening

in perspective,
by it’s turn to deeper space
a happening,
which turns the story
looking for those moments, strung along

life on the road, this anxiety within me or
out there, why can I find no
connection, the mirror and lamp
the end of sacred space
sold as commercial, the blocks of

more, more Burger King
Jiffy-Lube, Color-Tile
into the wild
and empty road ahead light slanting ,
dramatically

wondrously alone,
no one to stop me from this painting,
this writing, huddled beneath my talismanic blanket,
the sun vanishing-- Road Song,
this is the splendor of beauty

I wish to die into, to be part of
my thoughts melt,
the paradise of moments cherished
here, quiet long, slow
sun spilling out

the cold evaporating
as the orb mounts the sky, I’m on my way
coffee in hand, steam fogging windshield,
in the cold wind
blowing past the needle point of light growing

up in elevation to pines,
stopping to relieve myself
behind some juniper
the wild wind blowing--- peeing
on my self with glee

no ones out here, a car goes by then nothing
the snow still piled up on this mountain road
I’ll be in Arizona soon
and on to Joshua Tree
the jet trails above to Los Angeles

I should get out of the car, walk a bit
my questions continue through my head
mothers voice telling me
“I’d be an unhappy boy,”
asking all those questions,”

outside cold? no family,
a family -- a farm
what more? is there to do,
I stopped at a museum
in Phoenix it was showing, as Art

what I was trying to escape, culture foisting upon
itself, more culture, no nature underneath
I planted some sunflower seeds, glimpsed
a de Kooning drawing , the nuanced color
that was worth the stop--

a painting is about this memorable abstraction
I’d go back just to “check the blue,”
of the Giotto’s in Padua
surrounded in urban gray
as I drove off,

that glimpse of color
I put beside this rushing landscape
a woman dissolved in the water of
the body,
an earth, dissolved in world

Jenny says, I’ve stopped making
anything I want to show to others? my path takes me
places others seem to deem irrelevant? they are silent
but I keep going, somehow fueled
by my story, it still seems real

I discover things, I have a way, an order
the cycles
hidden beneath
in our many directions,
my ideas sent out evaporate,
lost in distances

wheeling
still blue-- white feathered sky
land changing to rocky desert
acacia flare yellow
adjusted to green-gray sage

spring green verdure
a place of my own out here
to have these paintings
up on the walls
my life surrounding me

and the space turned
inside out
a hall of mirrors reflecting
endlessly
the soul meeting the

blank sky
Chinese mountains
water falls over rocks
and flowers
another’s imagination

projecting
through the days and spaces
of figures doing
Shiva dance, doing that,
the rhythm, the unknown

painter in Punjab hills
painting my soul, eternally
repeating arms
the days bring the world into being,
and gone, day and night

the comet speeding through,
progresses a course
racing to what end?
frozen in distance, unending variation
of landscape color
setting off, my worth--

completing it, a desert whirlwind, these things
brought close
and into relationship, the ordering, symbols
became the part
of unending being--

driving a line forward,
charging into the scene

the earth
continues,
it’s spinning

in black