i remember all warm first nite when
the painting roared off the wall
waking / and willie in
red whirled around the little black room
like mad angel / i remember forsythias
in hair and crotch and hand
by the river and i found a stone
with a face which i still have / i
remember the hills of massachusetts
& your room / and our garden of
marijuana which didn't grow well /
i remember you warm gentle impatient
beautiful wanting to make my happy only
/ & the hurt
who they are to me
what you are
and whether i feel
will feel go on feeling
without knowing after you
are gone i am sad very sad
at your going.
these are not old nouns or new nouns shedding
but no nouns unknowing nouns
going and am i recreating
the unknowing the going of them
you leaving by saying how sad
i am not showing even what
this sadness is because not knowing
not able to know nouns going.
displacing what i am recalling
i felt the morning flush of midnite rain
the way august was in 56 or 7 when i returned
from 4-h camp at alpine wyoming to find
a houseful of our relatives for your funeral
a hopeless congregation of a family
gone bad at the root of charlie rob
you spoke of navajo trading post in Arizona
where we visited your leathery face petrified
wood of curious trinkets made of silver and
turquoise by the indians in your home after the war
you were a licensed vender of goods for
the indians and paid your special fees as i
also pay my special fees for registrin and
withdrawin and registrin at idaho state
you are registerd these few years at mt mccaleb
cemetry amongst the weeds and lilacs and no large
There is a cloud
that shines a color alien to clouds,
and nights are darker than they were.
Blood I have shed
is powder on my memory.
I break on these immortal, broken stones,
and terror's dying haunts my metaphors.
Everybody I have known
is one man waiting on a half-imagined corner
for an unfamiliar face that he has loved.
The color of that cloud is named Goodbye,
for it is raining, shadows, everywhere.
The days have grown as delicate as bones.
The loneliest god in the universe
is walking, and his every word
is possibly goodbye on busy corners.
there is GRASS on the PAMPA and there is OIL
in the CRANKCASE. Our CAT purrs under her FUR
as if the CALENDAR would NEVER cease. I have ACCESS
to the PERSONAL, it is the AIR I TAKE, through WHICH
my two ARMS WAVE. Farther AWAY, FACES, armies of WORDS,
DIM fact and fancy. Bacon, an OLD june,
MEMORY DISQUALIFIES itself. Though it may EMERGE
as a DROP of longing on my TONGUE. From this
LIVING AXIS, I am ABLE to SPEAK without DYING.
There was a time when I was happy.
Although it happened only once,
T'was enough.
Never shall I forget
I was innocent till then
Gone are the happy days
He's not to blame, obviously.
Thanks brain.
I guess I still think about you
more than I would like to admit
it's not something you did
It's something you said
that will always be stuck in my head
I miss who I was
before you left me in the dust.
I miss the days you still cared
please I beg of you
please remember
that lonely November
it's those late night talks
those midday walks
that I miss the most