billyfivecrows

Can one be delicate in continuum?
Where the winged mind sleeps
Much less than stone-gaze
Half open. Can one breed

Harshness like cancer is
Some odd colt in multitple,
Flowing from a hive? Dumbness
Is a blue sky, a blue eye

Downstream of substance. I see
Revolution as solution too cloudy
To drink. This gross generation
Is a Pegasus in a factory

Of glue, sleeping standing up
Nothing to do but bit by bit
Bit, a long war to wide, flat teeth,
A short trip for the wing or two

That aligns its myth to miscalculation...


***

Robert Duncan would cluck his tongue, shake his head, and whisper into his chuckle at all of these seemingly closed-end poems that I'm creating. Smooth his worn tweed, cast his eyes in opposite directions, and offer another bowl of bouillibase.

Is there nowhere to go if you're already there? Is it finished before it's even begun? I'm a bad student...not too much obvious surge of organism in these little bodies that I make. But I doubt they'll see extinction.

(Someone asked me once: How do you write so many? I told them: I imagine that I'm walking on a vast beach covered in poetry, picking up small ones that I like and putting them in my pocket as I go along.

Their eyes wrinkled with smile.)


I wish I had known the man.


Good night
Good morning
Good evening

Whatever it may to whomever


And hello

r.