beatnik

it is that kind of day when
the people are slower than
the street, and marshall
mcluhan had no clue.

and all the small beats
kept to their bed,
with moreen and mark and
me too under the
covers, playing time stand
still.

poet’s object and realty

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object and value. i react, but my reactions exist in the real, even if what i react to is an illusion.

as a poet, i try to refine my feelings into a simple, single, feeling. i want to find the object of desire. not of disgust or desire, but desire. i establish a new value. then i react out again, renew or re-identify myself as a being in control, a ‘knowing poet’ and whatever else i identify with and package for, during the writing of, that poem.

this is idealism, this is thought. i act out my thinking: my reactions to a trigger are acted out in a structured, controllable way. but, i am sharing this or even projecting this intentionally out to the other. that is, a poem is not a ‘thought’, it’s a behavior. a behavior is a studied or learned or maybe even a physical reaction which is acted out within a narrow world of our total human self world. we speak, move… that is, play out in time and space. connect with the other, the outside of ourselves. direct ourselves to some one thing — define and narrow our need for someone else to satisfy. who we are calling to defines, in poetry, by whom we trust. we trust the authority but also the reader — we’re communicators, meaning we’re expecting a response — we don’t shout into a vacuum knowing, defining it as a vacuum and expecting anything other than our own self assertion — of physically being a real person.

we make things seem real. as a poet we present ideals as physical, emotionally valid, objective reality. that’s why all poems are love poems. that we attach an image, just as i might have an image in my mind of to whom i’m wishing the poem, is secondary — their identity — to the reality that we’ve come up with a mind solution at all. poetry is a pin on the tip of a coiled spring, snapping back at us when we find the spring’s tension limit, the limit of life’s tolerance of our behavior… of how far we can go in blaming others or even our self ( if we’re charitable towards our selves at all. )

poetry can be judged. a poem is a reaction, and in any game we can watch how the player responds, and judge the adequacy of that response to the game’s reality, not just by our ( poet and reader’s ) aesthetic needs. even if we were so needy that we think that sense satisfaction from soothing words is all we asking for.

summer

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lots of people in
the sun, summer toes,
and summer hats.

lots of noise and
falls and spats…
summer flies and
screaming brats.

here’s a boy who’s
lost in games…
days of yore
and castled spains.

parents shoving him
to be an empire soldier man
in endless victory.

living in his sand soft
world, who could he kill?
sandman guns
and sandman curls.

winter

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i was wondering about
avalanches giving and
emptying,
like a father who is
not, like a rain
that dries heaven.

maybe i see that
chidren aren’t cattle.
read that, that
i’m a dad too,
and it didn’t matter.

maybe my wondering isn’t like
wishing, like a dream might
make fathers;
like a snow makes
white rainbows.

 

 

black river

mostly, i’m ignoring my hand inside
his hand. such composure, i felt
at least like the mona sphynx.

his concerning,
his yearning,
for a simpler done times
when he’d mellow
in the meadow, by the
black river pines.

mostly. the compressed hand between
his own. such affection, in
pats, like butter on toast.

 

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you’d have thought the days

frisco hippies 67

you’d have thought the days,
if you used that phrase, which you
didn’t. cause thought is action and now is
the future.

you pretended, i did, that i was the start of
freedom.

we took off our clothes when we could, we
danced. we made colors when there were only
tinted grays. we educated.

somewhere, there’s still a music we engendered,
running around on mt. diablo, brighter than a
thousand cheap woodstocks.

you ran naked on the beach, and nike wept for every
dollar it lost. you ate brown rice and macdonald’s fumed at
hippies and fried a dead fish for its health.

you wandered alien on the streets of frisco, berkeley, NYC and
didn’t know there was that much money in us, i mean, head
shops and groovy were liberated and there i was, broke and needing
a cigarette.

ginsberg told you that you write like a sissy. alan watts told you to
come back when you had money. gary snyder now talks story from the
telephone book to keep an audience. fuck all that, it’s not your life.

the world turns on its axis, it sometimes shifts. i look inside before i
paint my own shadow. the day has come, i only
write what i know. did i trick you right?

these gray lights over casper

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these gray lights over casper drape
over tiny white flecks of water
thrown over the secret riverfall of
time has no place.
and, here we die,
lay and wait for the sky to open
so light can fall down.

clown light scrub the afterday of
many sorrows. wash our
fantasies. bright smile our

dream world of
paper floors and hollow candies. make it glow.

let love go and i’ll be a
whisper in the
music on a distant clear blue sky of
many stars, infinite blue.

they seek their wonders inside a
tide of ice and shadows. take me there.