Yellow, a thesis on everyday life.
How you yellow.
Stopping the patient among us, as if we
were actually anyone or you, the smart one
with a degree in spelunking
and not enough change or reading Tasso
you discovered what a tropism was, let
the journalist in you have his idea of what
the vehicle should be called, asked
about it, hurrying us to our home
to figure out just what gives
every part of a building its just dimensions.
And in the evening, side by side
we have just discovered the change in our lives,
a hunch that a hand waved in the weather
would remain aloft, proof any reduction
white plumed reeds
above yerba buena
-a clear dry smell
but
the fact of Nature
so complexly given
i was no more of it
than you, a
swift mindless carrier beyond
beyond that one
so perfectly real
in wanting, and
no thought then
seemed deeper
white plumed
sea reeds
in the mountains
just before the full moon sets
another grey rock
From this ledge
you can see my brothers'
camp fires after dark.
They are not afraid to be
spotted at night;
Goat sure in the dark,
A dirk in every pleat.
You'll hear their pipes
across ravines
mentioning their dead.
Here I have come
to where?
A bar in the middle of nowhere, New York City
But it's Spanish and that's good.
And why?
Because it makes me feel
separated from obligations
and alone
in a lost town
on the west coast of vanquished Mexico.
The automatic easy emptyness
of the solved day
is gone there.
Gone with the hard binds of responsibility
A womans alcoholic joy
is used there.
He stomped
his foot to come
self through out of him -
his hand.
His voice
was loud and the
ear was
frightened
Now the
fire has gone
down.
Old stories
told again,
again
and again.
a light snow
a had been fallen
the brown most showed
knoll trunk knot treelings' U's
The Sound marsh water
ice clump
sparkling root etc
and so far out.
To my small
electric pump
To sense
and sound
this world
look to
your snifter
valve
take oil
and hum
Thoughts make men strangers
and create great moments of urgency,
as well as nervousness, when a thought
moves you to wake up and light a cigarette
and lie back on pillow, content
in thinking, in playing the thought through,
that's the only way for it to die!
The death of a thought isn't wholesome
like coming home from school for a glass of milk
and cookies. There's no wholesomeness
in guilt, but it comes in dreams
in the form of pictures
of saints and rabbinical figures
lighting big cigars.
There's no thought like the one I'm having.
It bends me backwards in my chair so that
see each
thing
one
combination
or
another
possibilities
of rain
the shadows around the corner before
the cars there's the back windows too slow
moment
away from
the setting sun
project tall bug-
gye flickering past
trees
changed here
through the seasons
over the road
branched out
nights the
spectrum of
goods
lights
hauls fast
or it's haphazard
ground
the earth known
was a process
slow like stars
burn
a good while
bulldoze
clear
floors
some of the land to the wind