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2.

Wozzek! Wozzek! Das ist dein Ubermensch!

The Master, song itself swings by today

      Db Major (I guess;

perfect pitch but no names) for ‘unusual feelings’

plunged in

deep in the jaunt of its passage. Song that matters.

Of matter. So much to say! I held fast my oar, the one I fumbled;

such excitement, to begin, Wozzek!

       

I rewind the tape

  (what good is the story, hysterics we are

    in a feckless continuum)    

all I want is your name for this, lovely fragment, o liar, to sprawl out 

a song for the sake of singing-

“The night so empty.”

“Time to return.”

One eye on the sky,

letting the animals through in pairs

the Master is an open door; arrives and goes missing

that too is a Universal, twinned 

        the Egyptian thing, hokey pokey

Zerah, Perez, the Master comes and goes missing 

in (with) the rest. Rests. Here. Wozzek! Das ist–

sprawled out on the grass

sun, shade, 

to feel all of it, insistent as feel is, outward with increase,

 

3.

Humid (reminds me of Gettysburg, but why?

a boy punished with a wool cap

swatting at gnats

here as on the diamond).

This time with the whole of you

and this sudden keening;

to dance round one’s own line, lie with a life in it.

I’ll remember it anywhere, the clean smell of moss

the bull-moose watches us watch, haunting 

the grounds of the mind bodied who knows how far below.

Muggy (learning it   the clammed lineaments

cut from air, parthenospotless, another accident of alchemy

in the outside’s endless assault

  one replies, born: to be seen is to be born)

how do you say,

      re-minded, by the slight damp of skin, 

you remember it for the first time.

***

Explain nothing remember everything

the waves themselves straight from

a posteriori from the back of thought.

& what comes to hand the flesh is the tale

of another mind think with your hands, she said

my hands are still thinking of her as I pull up grass, re-membered

with nothing between

  no external cause

her or whoever

anything you could huck a word at.

The Blawe Bergen, as I said, my friends

on our way to the Hudson, are not blue

if you’re on them: the word is ours, the blue

ours and a soul, says the Semantics, worldward, 

careful who you let walk on your street

on anything you’ve ever seen. Be careful what you see.

4.

Look long enough; isn’t that what you wanted, 

to find something there in all its life,

its everything? No more thoughts, thank god

besides of course the intellection, the names, the actual wind spilled

over you perched on the rock tide coming in

to wet your thoughts not your socks must be an

attribute of thought part of the seasoning of God;

we were young we read Spinoza but dare I tell you

I’ve been laying here (how long since then?), seasoning 

 in sun and showers and the ponderously long

blue evening (my favorite), my left foot– how strange

I should start there– toward the tree, head to light-house, my right

but you know this. You heard me inside came swan diving in

to find me here I am. Here I am knowing no more than you do

The Hanged Man, Villon rolled out with les neige on the springy 

turf somewhere deep in your abdomen as the chimney kites and couples 

stroll about the damp, just a fellow in a fylfot 

to be like the divine in the universe easy to stumble over,

another pretending 23 year old, finally old enough to pull the missing card.