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.
