Marijuana Poetry

Roger E. Rosenberg

 

MARIJUANA POETRY

(1966-1969)

 

Table of Contents

College Days

 

Reflections on a Windy, Lonely Day

Always

A Trite Poem on a Serious Subject

Float the Air Proudly

On Freedom

Summer of Stone

Love

Ode to a Friend

The Brown-Sugar Woman

Meaning

Black Power

The Soul

Cryptic Lines of Poetry

Thunder at the Pain of Dusk

Insanity at the Spread of Dawn

For Colleen

Miscellaneous

The Two-Eyed Monster

Bench of Dull Brown

One More Trip

Baby Jesus’ First Words

In the Even Blood Flow

Notes on Freedom

Mon Amour

On Doubts

Picture Yourself

“Atheist’s Lament”

The Poet

where the purple has gone

Sadness Over a Friend’s Death

MISSIN’ MARTHA BLUES

 

Reflections on a Windy, Lonely Day

 

To be alone is a treacherous thing:

One can’t escape into others

When one is alone-

He must be strong

From within,

Or his world

Will collapse:

Pretense, put-ons,

Grooves that are ruts,

All threaten to crumble

In that briefest flash

Of irresistible loneliness,

Equilibrium lost in a sight,

Happiness vanishing

With a shake of the heart,

And artfully constructed

Sanity ready to flee

At the glimpse of reality.

 

 

ALWAYS

I

What–perhaps a second–and stilled one world

The trigger relaxes, unwelcome’d task done,

Dreaming of love and home,

War yielding to life.

 

But for now, lives the deed and not the dream.

 

His eyes longed to close, his mind to forget,

But the fear that can murder

Keep those eyes searching,

And his untrained mind members still,

The scream that he caused,

The death he did bring…

 

“What was his name?”  “How did he live?”  “Why did he die?”

 

“Tis human nature,” the Soothsayers had sworn,

This need to kill, this time for war.

Yes, a time for war, a function of man,

As history has shown (as history has damned?)

 

Somewhere, a doubt stirred, and he tried to shut

It out…And yet it stirred…

 

He knelt and prayed:

 

“God, dear God, please understand,

I had no choice, my country must win;

Our honor’s at stake, and if my land

I defend, there’s surely no sin.”

 

II

Behold God weeping: killing for wrong knows no honor,

And if to “win” all justice dies, victors gain nothing

But mankind’s Hate, and History’s Scorn; and those who had no choice,

Yet dead or no, secure but shameful epitaphs, and little more.

 

III

Hark, the war hawks cry and the crisis nears:

“A time for war;” but mind, A time for peace!

“This human nature;” but soul, Not mine, brother!

“It has to be;” but heart, no… No!  No!!!

 

To echo or deny, to crush or hear his own heart’s

Plea: cliché vs. reasoned thought, rationalization

Or honest deliberation, prayer or free thought:

To echo or deny; to echo, or deny.

 

What matters his doubts, his is not to reason why:

His silence was neutral, he condoned nor condemned;

Aye, that was it, to neither condone nor condemn,

To stay his mind, to do his duty, to take no sides.

 

Somewhere, a doubt stirred, and he tried to shut it out…

And yet it stirred…and then…then he felt anger, and shame,

And hate…and suddenly the blinding tears spilled forth…

A scream escaped, his sobbing grew hysterical…

 

 

IV

A time for war: who’ll swear it’s not for right?

But answering silence sounds an unheard warning,

Forerunner of a strange, far stranger sound,

Which will trouble not and pain not: the Final Whimper.

 

For silence sought acquiescence and bastarded they the future,

And do not the dead always sleep untroubled and unpained?

“What traitor caused that silence!” roars the clever Patriot,

And silence—the begetter of doom–deepens, ever deepens.

 

And now, and now the trigger tenses once more,

The soldier’s prayer spirals off to a weeping God,

The Soothsayer lies, and the Patriot roars his fatal treason:

But for now, lives the deed and not the dream…

And so lives the war, oh yes, and dies the dream, always.

 

 

 

 

A  Trite Poem on a Serious Subject

(Subtitled: A Serious Poem on a Trite Subject)

(Sub-subtitled: a Non-poem on a Non-subject!)

 

I fled down the Avenue of Poetry,

But, coming upon a very dead end,

Perforce cut over to the Field of Fantasy,

And there stayed lost, ignoring the bend

I put in my Purpose, until the stress

Grew too great, and I started to run:

Ran hard ran harder, ran fast ran frenzied,

Ran in a trance, ran in a great pain,

Ran for an hour, ran for a year,

Ran for relief, ran to escape.

But tracks go in circles, life in a line,

And where the tangent breaks the curve,

I smashed against the waiting

Wall of Reality.

 

 

 

Float the Air Proudly

 

Irving was a soap bubble

Who liked to blow people,

Digging their complexity

And lack of uniformity,

Enjoying their tempers fiery,

With passions so fleeting,

But, most of all, marveling

At their inability to be.

‘Twas remarkable, don’t you see,

The ways of people to Irving B.,

Who saw them laughing and crying,

Who heard them shouting and fighting,

So oft’ intent on strong opposing

Their fellow men their fellow people,

And, ever and anon, on losing all cool,

To the very Wind stand resisting.

Then one day, all calm and sunny,

Irving blew, but no bliss felt he,

For the art of blowing, the game of watching,

So long his style, his way of growing,

Began to bore, his joy decreasing,

Feeling ever less a happy bubble,

More and more the turned-on fool,

‘Til to the winds he was soon discoursing:

“People are lovely, but they aren’t

Very real, not hardly like you and me.

Blowing people, I thought it but a

Harmless game, yet lo and reflect,

Might it not mean I fail to take

My soap in earnest? I must return to

The world of my fellow bubbles, to let

Them know, and all bubblity, that

Blowing people matters not, that

Being bubbly really does, and that,

Until the breezes do break my curve,

I will float the air proudly, and

A beautiful bubble, always be.”

 

 

 

On Freedom

I

I found a rubber ball,

Resting by the curb-

Or, perhaps,

Was it waiting to die?

Of the two,

I could not tell.

 

I stooped, picked it up,

And held the ball

A full moment, and more;

Then quietly resolved

To help it quit this hell.

My arm drew back,

For once (my life’s

Briefest only?)

The many minds of mine

All of one purpose,

Every muscle

Pulled

Achingly

Taut,

Strength from every port

Flowing through the heart,

And there to tensing arm.

 

And now, but one thought,

So intense I did not

Think it, nor need–

And now, a single emotion

Cascades through my veins,

Emotion of coming eruption–

And now, each vibrating muscle

Almost too violent to control

And, NOW!

A mighty roar,

The spring uncoils

The rushing arm flays the

Whistling wind, the heart

Throbs, the body trembles,

Tumultuous climax!

 

 

As all strength, all courage

All Olympian resolve

Spent in the hand’s– nay, in

The soul’s!– great Release.

The arm is paining,

The tears hotly burn,

Shoulder hides fire–

But the heart, the heart,

So lately troubled

So last despaired,

Knows no ache other

Than exertion’s tremor,

And this agitated beat

Forgotten are it occurred,

For the heart to rejoices!

And the wildest pulse will pass unfelt

Should the blood’s true temper

Be but spiritually soothed.

 

II

Where came this calm?

Aye! From the ball,

That ball which streaked

From my hand faster

Than I threw it,

That ball which swept past

All air, higher and higher,

That ball which dared to surge

Towards the very Heavens!

My eyes strained after,

To keep the blue sky’s dot

From distance vanishing–

Ah, foolish mortal!

Sight is of small avail

When trying to trace

The invisible way

Of another’s courage.

 

Though unable to see

My heart soon shuddered,

And saddened,

Sensing too well

The tragic end

About to come real;

For the zenith reached,

The limits touched,

The highest seen,

My brave sphere

Came to its final second,

Second not of time or motion,

But of the ages’ silence

And all man’s suffering,

A moment that would

Feign freeze itself in time–

Magnificent, and forever!–

Yet even an Eternal second

Is but one tick upon the clock,

And now, oh tragic figure

That thou art! ready for the fall.

Look! the downward plunge…

 

Falling, falling, falling,

No longer free, solely

The speed of some

Mathman’s rule–

Unable to reverse

Or even to slow

Until the whole

Journey done

The distance

Gone the

Pavement

Cruelly

Cruelly

Struck.

 

 

III

For but a second,

Heart flares in briefest joy,

As on the bounce

The ball breaks free,

Strives to tear apart

Its bond of Fate.

But it is no use,

It cannot last–

Through I’ll hope forever,

And on each glorious bounce

Renew my prayers!–

Alas, it cannot last.

Newton’s laws are hard at work,

And a common rubber ball,

Seeking for its god,

Is bouncing ever fewer,

Is rolling ever slower,

Is guided curbward by

The slope, is coming

To a stop, now is

Resting, now is dying,

Is resting, dying, resting,

Now is dying,

Now is dying,

Now is dying…

 

 

 

SUMMER OF STONE

 

Pass it on and let me take

I feel too straight

Hang-ups they grate

Could almost hate,

Don’t let me wait

Let’s pass my fate

Now pass it on and let me take

I like my head

When inside’s fed

Ain’t no part dead,

Old mind turns red

New minds spread

Pass it on, and let me take

Ah, feel all right

This groovy flight

This brand new night,

Like a mighty kite

I need new height

Hey, pass it on and let me take

Took a try sometimes June,

Nothing much, a little light,

Went for twice fairly soon;

Held it long, my eyes shut tight,

Wings of air, whole mind in flight.

Couldn’t trip faster in the months that came,

Seeing sounds, hearing color–little the same;

Latest highs stronger, smoother, another tone.

Senses calmer, cooler, less of game,

Learn to see, to feel, to be–love is known.

But summer ended

My mind untended

Only offended,

Dreams once intended

Were never attended

So pass it on, and pass it on

I can’t blame pot

New joys I sought

Ne joys I got,

Good grass I bought

Fine sensations it brought

Let me pass it, pass it, pass it on

But a mile is always a mile,

The trip it is only within me;

And I’m beginning to rile

That for new worlds to see

I must lose this earth a while

And cease to touch reality.

Yes I’m blowing it less

For this world’s in a mess

The future a guess,

And Lyndon Baines has yet to confess

His false patriot’s dress.

The Vietnam War has got to go,

And with it too that ugly man;

The process now may well be slow,

But if it’s a new order we plan,

Where all are free, where love will flow,

We’ve got to flight, we’ve got to stand.

So, pass it on and let me take

Let my mind unwind

Let my body unbind,

Tonight I allow for flight…pass it on…

Knowing well tomorrow goes to flight…who will stand…

New senses grown

Mind nearly blown

Yet reason not flown,

A higher sanity sown

A finer meaning now known,

This then, my Summer of Stone

Pass it on, I’m gonna stand…

 

 

LOVE

Love?

Yes!

But can’t mention

Oh damn

Why is this the needed play

Why not truth the better way

No no no

Must promise to wait

For what already has come

Must choose to ignore

That which is hardest

Must feign not to know

What my future can be

Come Time

I let you pass

Come Space

I let you expand

Though the moment is here

Though the beat is grown

Still more time

Still more room

Still more

Still more

Yes

Still more restraint

Yes yes

Let time pass intent

My heart to grow more

To wait for its moment

And ache not before

Yes yes yes

 

 

 

Ode to a Friend

It was foggy here,

The other night.

It was a strange fog,

A fog that stood quite still,

Appearing motionless

When casually

Studied

By the eye.

Nor is this the end

To the strangeness

That has found me.

I tried to pierce

To the fog’s

Internal

Structure

With my eyes,

But the harder I tried,

The hazier all perception.

At last, out of frustration

And fear,

I called forth my

Greatest concentration,

I willed

The sharpest vision of my life,

And, with a

Tremendous effort,

Opened my eyes

As wide as they would go–

And looked again,

To see the fog.

But the speed of my vision,

From eye to image to eye to brain,

Itself began to slow

Ever more and more,

Until, finally,

My vision,

Too,

Stood still.

And the strangeness

Came nearer.

Yet, though the-people-all-around-me

The-chair-beneath-me the-wall-beyond-me

Were becoming

Irrevocably invisible,

The fog

That very strange fog

Came ever clearer into focus–

Even as the boundaries of

All objects

Were ceaselessly dissolving,

All colors and shapes and densities

Merging together

Ere the merging ceased

And the vanishing began,

Even as blindness began

Its final assault,

Brighter now became the fog.

The strangeness

Began

Enveloping

Me,

And the

Security

It brought

Felt good.

I looked again at the fog,

And saw it,

Most perfectly:

The fog as frozen,

As I had suspected–

I could see

Quite plainly

Each and every

Petrified particle of

Frozen fog.

The strangeness I liked,

This Strangeness

Was my friend.

Proof! Magically,

Out of the energy

Of friendship newly bonded,

I found myself

Standing among

The frozen particles of fog;

They were all around

At ease, I stood, surrounded.

I walked up to one

Of the particles–

The Strangeness, my friend,

Had chased all fear from my soul–

And looked inside,

There to see

Suspended molecules,

Cold and clear

And crystalline;

I cast a look back

Over my shoulder,

At the infinity of particles

That stretched

In every direction

Away from me.

If I climb into this particle,

I reasoned,

I may never

Be able

To find my way

Back.

Somehow, it is not a scary thought.

I looked at my friend,

The Strangeness,

To seek advice–

A nod of the head

Was sufficient.

I climbed inside.

This is an ode written to the memory of a friend, a friend who went on an acid voyage and never returned, who cannot speak anymore to us who did not go with him.  He has a little room in a hospital–though the room is too big for his needs, at that–and sits all day in a chair, staring.

His little room used to be in a mental institution, but some two years after he had started on his last voyage, he was moved (can he know the difference?)  to the hospital.

It had been decided that his condition was beyond the general state of those who are mentally ill, or merely insane.  Besides, it is easier–in terms of apparatus, etc.–to feed someone intravenously in a hospital.

I want this to be a gentle poem, gentle as my friend was gentle, even as I fervently pray with all my heart and souls that his last voyage was gentle. Ah, but who am I to say–I, who had the misfortune not to go with him, when we could have been so safe, together in our wanderings–who am I to say his last voyage has ended?

Who knows, as he climbs into that petrified particle of frozen fog, lured on by

Suspended molecules,

Cold and clear

And crystalline

Who know what infinity of time and space and sensation may yet await him?  I pray to the Strangeness that waits for each of us, within each of us, that you are gentle when you guide my friend, that you are gentle, that you are gentle.

 

 

The Brown-Sugar Woman

The brown-sugar-woman,

She comes to your door

To show you her tan

Ends up back to the floor

Asking you now if you are a man.

You say is that some sort of joke.

She closes her eyes and gives out a groan

Her pelvis is heaving, breaking its joke,

She shudders/her body/it cries out a moan,

You move so much nearer but only to poke.

Then she’s sucking you in/she’s blowing you out,

As you ask yourself where is her mind

She scratches your skin and turns you about,

You want to speak but no words can you find,

To tell her what she wants Lord you ain’t got.

She finally sees that you’re only lousy whore,

And gets ready to go in search of a man,

You sit up so funny and feel for the floor

Say goodbye and oh yeah you’ve got a nice tan,

And go into a faint as she heads for the door.

 

 

Meaning   (dedicated to Diogenes)

Meaning,

The Professor pointed out,

Has many meanings.

(He paused: the class/ copied

Down the phrase/ which he

Considered

Rather clever).

Meaning can mean everything,

He went on/ very seriously,

Or it can mean/ but

A part of everything,

Or even, as some philosophers

Contend–he smiled, for this

Clever reference to himself–

Meaning may mean nothing at all.

“What do you mean?” I asked,

My question echoing on/ into the

Silence that ensued

The class so badly shocked

They could hardly copy.

“It’s all right, class”

The Professor said swiftly,

Eyeing me suspiciously,

“We seem to have a would-be

Philosopher in the class.”

Everyone chuckled at that,

Thinking the Professor quite clever.

“I’m a better philosopher than you”

I said, quietly, and this time,

The question was too shocked at itself

To think of echoing. The class sat

Motionless,

While the Professor stared.

 

“What do the laws of motion mean?” I asked

(It was one of his favorite examples)

“Nothing”–he said, wondering.

I stood up and threw my textbook at him.

He ducked.

“Oh yeah!” I said,

And went home.

 

 

Black Power

Out of your haze

A bump comes sliding

Chewing sawdust

Silver chain following

Lovely bobbling

Lightly coated

Loams too large

Crashes

Chain jerks

Anchor pulsates

Jet-black crimson alert

Untimely tottering rebound

Chocking dust

One bump big two smaller

Screech

Receding screech

Wilder Jerk

Insane spiked speeded stabs

Freak of calm

Horrendous screech

All dust dissolves

Chain freezes

Silver fades gaping pain

Pulsating threshold

A stunned second

Cleaved

Crazed screeching       hot bumps

Anger

Anchor triggered         Black magnet

Strength insane

Greater power

Sucked silently

Swallowed

Into haze

For Norman MacCaig

(in critical jealousy)

 

 

 

The Soul

The soul

That comes

From within

Is beyond

The name

Of

God

Gods are invisible

But the soul

Has heartbeat

And dreams

To feel

Glowing

Within

The soul

That comes

From within

Can be seen

The glow goes forth

Softly

Secretly returns

Now goes forth

To meet

Other glows

Return gently              Yet knowingly

With

The friendship

Of love

The soul

That comes

From within

Is not eternal

This body

For now,

Forever

Will someday cease

Let it touch

The wisdom

Of others

Let it reach

To feel

The universe

Let it be seen

One day

This body, and soul,

Will

No longer

Touch

Your wisdom

Will

No longer

Seek

The peace

Of the universe

The soul

That comes

From within

Should not regret

That someday

It shall be no more

For today        and for tomorrow

I am

Will the soul one day cease

Yes

Or shall it go on

In the memories

You cherish

The soul

That comes

From within

Blesses death

Let newer souls

Be seen

 

 

Cryptic Lines of Poetry

Cryptic lines of poetry

Churn hard

The mud of inner minds

Break holes inside the rustling walls

Holes roughly raped

By cascading mud

Mud

That crashes down the corridors

Filling the chambers

Overflowing the tombs

Massive

Pulsating

Bursting

Rushes against

The final wall

Breaks apart

Unites

Smashes still stronger

Seeking rusted weakened spots

Finding

Solid unknowing strength

Forced to subside

To recede back down

The quiet corridors

To leave empty

Once more

All tombs and chambers

Ebb meekly through the wounded holes

Past the final rusting wall

Flow slower

Heavier

Silently settle

Into the blackest depth

Of depthless black

There

To ghostly wait

For the next

Hard

Churning

Lines

Of cryptic poetry

 

 

 

Thunder at the Pain of Dusk

Thunder at the pain of dusk

Horizons recede

Headlights flash

Eyes blink

Too late

Mind is not where it was

Darkness descends

The color of night cools the crease

Forehead eases

Mind slips away

Headlights blind the eyes

The mind blinks

Too late

The eyes see not what they see

Thunder rolls out in waves of noise

Shatters against the frozen ear

Sounds break and die

The mind cannot hear

Headlights flash/burst of brilliance

But the black of mind

Rises up smothers all streaks

No flashes are real

The color of night ceases to glow

The mind is black

It is deaf

It is blind

The earth blinks

Too late

Nothing is there

The night is black.

 

 

 

Insanity at the Spread of Dawn

Insanity of the spread of dawn

The dying sun rises

Its shame is its pride

Its heat is my blood

In blinded fury it strives

To destroy me

Headlong frenzied diving

My body flings itself downward

Rolls dizzily under a car

There to tremble

To spit and hiss at the poison

That seeks me

The half-crazed car begins to melt

Its blood erupts

Bursts high into the sky

Now showers down

I scream shake convulsively

Stumble fear paralyzes

Strive to step over the skeleton

Foot touches

Destroys all balance

Senses instantly disintegrate

The ground is above me

A billion suns surround

Savagely focus

On a single spot of space

My body

Every cell of skin

Like some stupendous magnifying glass

Insides crackle sizzle

The sun ceaselessly sucks

Its vengeful rays

Seek my blood

I scream

No relief

 

Blinding blood-red brilliance

All veins burst

The blood erupts

High high into the sundrenched sky

Now showers down

Washes clean the skeleton

Stillness befalling the spreading dawn

 

 

For Colleen

In memory of the night we sat on Grizzly Peak and discovered that we were alive!

People, soon you’ll be stoned

Don’t say oh no/you’ll never touch pot

For pot is not what will stone you

Don’t you know now

That you were born with eyes?

Don’t you know that your eyes

Can see that silver of the starts?

Your eyes will stone you, people,

If only you would believe them

And circling your eyes to either side

A pair of ears

To hear the cry of a newborn babe

Eyes that can see rainbows

Ears to catch whispers

Oh people, so soft is your stone

And, look,

There, inside the mouth, flows

The golden taste of honey

Come, my friends, it is time to believe

The scent of roses caresses your mind

Know now that this is real

Touch the hand of your fellow man

Alive and warm

Sleep gently with your loved one

Let each the other’s body touch

Know now that you are real

Oh people, how can you not be stoned!

You are alive!

Breath, people!

Smile, people!

Laugh, people!

Again people, laugh again!

You are alive!

You were afraid of us

Because we wanted to be alive.

Touch your hands, people,

Don’t be afraid anymore.

Gaze into our eyes

Hear our sounds

Smell the flowers with us

Taste our honey

Touch our hands.

It is this beautiful for each of us, people

It can be this beautiful for all of us, people

The time of hiding

From your inner self

From the stars

From us

Is past, it belongs

To a primitive era/of long ago

It is night,

And we sit upon the ground,

Sharing life, sharing love,

Beneath the stars,

Knowing not how we arrived,

Knowing only that we are here.

Know now that we are true.

Know now, that we are.

 

 

Miscellaneous

My body was sitting on the beach

The other day

While my mind dove far under the water…

Inhale deeply

Sun-swollen lungs

Bursting

With sun-bleached smoke…

Chromosomes in the head

Ceasing to crawl

Beginning to sprint…

Far far under the water…

My genetics prof. came strolling

Down the beach

Oh by the way

He said

There are no chromosomes in the head

He came strolling down

From far away

To tell me that

I guess that shows

Where the chromosomes in his head

Must be at…

Down down

Down into the unlit depths…

He was nearly out of sight

When I whispered to my dog

That professor has an awfully big head–

All full of chromosomes, too, I bet!

He laughed

I knew he would…

Came up for a gulp of air–

My body was still sitting there…

The professor was nowhere in view…

Took a deep breath…

Lungs expanded mightily…

Dove back under

 

 

The Two-Eyed Monster

The two-eyed monster

One flaming orange

The other timid green

Would please itself

Impossible to see…

But

Foolishly unable to vanish from the air

Can only pretend to vanish from the mind,

When its green and timid eye

Is challenged

By the mob’s

Unrelenting stare…

The orange eye suffers too

This degradation,

A fiery point for memory to blaze,

And should a weaker monster

Chance weakly by,

The orange eye flashes

With the fury of horrendous revenge

And the weaker monster cringes

Seeks to vanish from the stare…

Rare is it rare it is rare

That the balance bounces out

Through the suspicion and the hate

And through the haze of monsters’ fears

Harmonizes all

Green eye not vanishing

Nor orange eye flashing

Only the image of the soul

Being given and admired

Through the hazes of the maze

 

 

BENCH OF DULL BROWN

Bench of dull brown silently shields the girl of good looks,

Alone with her fragmented self,

Entrenched in her books,

Disdaining to meet,

To acknowledge or see,

The gazes, the glances

Of lone passers-by.

For the others are male

Aware of her sex,

And that of course means

Eyes are averted,

And passion diverted.

No greeting of warmth,

Save by some pretext

So speak not a word.

To sit freely down

Is close to perverted.

And while her eye is bookward cast

And looker my longingly look,

As long as his legs

Keep to their walk:

Her head is down,

No eye can be seen–

Walk on by,

For she is not free,

But only a prisoner blended to the bench,

Longing to be given a smile

And to return one in kind,

Yet sees only her book,

As she sits upon

The bench of dull brown.

 

 

One More Trip

One more trip

Not icy

But cold

Too much heaviness

To my gear

Ready to fall

Hand me

Some sugar

Hand me some tabs

If I don’t

Get a fresh burst

Then I surely

Will fall

Jim

Along came

A clear-headed

Friend

Cleaning my gaze

Made me straighten

To see his eyes

Flash of that

Bread and cheese

And blankets and ants

We shared

And I knew then

That I was lost

He hitched my sack

To his shoulder

Made me walk

Made me walk a block

Fell in his car

Fell in his bed

The trembles came on

And he kept saying

Try to bust it, dad

Try to bust it

And I remembered

How cold it had been

Time eased in and out

Sometimes blind

Sometimes free

Said four days it took

To get me on my feet

He was at my side

Four days straight

He played for me

He played for my life

Records and humming

And stories no one could hear

And his hand his hand

Try and bust it, dad,

Try and bust it

Instead of the wind

And on the fourth day

When I sprang from the bed

He leaned back and grimaced

And slowly touched his hand

You old cow-hand Jim

And I found his eyes

And grabbed his hand

All bruised and broke

And I wept, Lord,

I wept…

For all that time he was begging me

To bust it

I was doing it

And he never said a sound

Just them stories

That no one could hear

And a sweet sort of humming

The sound of salvation . . . .

For Jim

 

 

Baby Jesus’ First Words

When Baby Jesus popped awake,

His two twinkling eyes

First alighted

Upon

A wise old man,

A very

Wise

Old

Man indeed,

Who have

Considerable thought

To the Cause

Of the Twinkle

In the eyes of the Baby Jesus,

Saying,

At last,

Upon

Picking his words

With

Obvious care:

“You’re groovy, kid.”

Baby Jesus smiled,

His eyes twinkled,

As he softly answered:

“I love you.”

The wise old man

Nodded his head a knowing nod,

Which made the Baby Jesus

Happy,

And made him say,

With a serious smile:

“I think I’m going to like it here.”

The wise old man looked at

the Baby Jesus.

Did he know?

He knew.

The Baby Jesus looked at

the wise old man.

Did he know?

He knew.

The wise old man smiled,

And the Baby Jesus smiled.

They went outside together,

To sit upon the ground,

In prefect peace,

Close to one another,

Believing in the stars,

Breathing softly,

In the quiet of the night.

For Walt Whitman

in (critical) jealousy

 

 

 

In the Even Blood Flow

         I

In the even

Blood flow

Of a country of war

Around its red rivers

Beneath its green skies

Pulsating

New moments

Are occurring

With circling speed

Noise of the enemy

Denying you

Your suicide

Gives the centre

Vaster strength

Where do we hide–

In truth

We hide nowhere,

(Nowhere where

Decent men

Fear to tread)

Are we insane?

Closer now

My brothers

Soon

They will scare

Their fear

Will teach them

Us

How to kill

           II

Murder

No longer suicide

We liberate

You murder

You weaken

You hide

We liberate

You suicide

Pulsating

New moments

Are occurring

With circling speed

Around its red rivers

Beneath its green skies

In the even

Blood flow

Of a country at war

They will scare

Soon

Are we insane?

Closer now

My brother

 

 

 

Notes on Freedom

I am free

Will you deny it?

How–

With your college

That confines me

With your Selective Service

That’s seeks me

With your society

That defines me?

No, a thousand angry no’s

Erupt from every corner

Of this soul

A thousand angry corners

Criss-crossing

Its intelligence

A billion-fold

Known only to me

And the hearts

That I trust

No!

Your college cannot confine us

Hold in our minds?

Oblique flashes

A dozen corners

Find a dozen

Answering

Steadying

Minds

Learning to be free

Teaching escape

Escaping

These confines you construct

I shall be free

For your constructions

Lack the logic of love

Will your Selective Service

Find me

Will they teach me

How to ask another man

Hold still, I mean to kill you?

No!

Content yourself

With keeping dull eyes

On a body confined in space

Or roaming new continents

Or easing freely

Into waiting

Underground

Will you find this mind

Faster than I think

Unite it with brothers

Teach it its power

Are you really so naïve?

I am free

Will the school confine me

We strike

Will the draft find me

I hide the body

Will society define me

We shout no!

We are free

Who will see us?

You who build to destroy,

With your education

Of confusion,

With your army

Of hate-hate murder,

With your society

Of ordered nonsense,

Will you see us

Through your fear

And lies, you hate

And dreaded slavery?

No, no more will you see us

Save in disciplined anger

You will not see us

When we reach out

To love and aid our brothers

You will not see us

When we now and then relax

Indulging sweetest laughter

You will see us no more

Save as part of a united roar

You will beg forgiveness–

You will cry, spare us!

And a thousand angry no’s

Erupt from every corner

Of this and every soul

 

Mon Amour

Mon amour

Comme la lune

La donateuse

De la tendresse

À l’eau le plus umbrageux,
Elle s’a suicidé.

Hier,
Ensemble…
Le matin,
J’aime le clarté
du soleil;
Le soir,
J’ai pleuré.

… Aujourd’hui…
Au coeur brisé,
L’esprit pénible,
Insensible…
… Engourdissement…

Mon amour,
Comme la lune
La donateuse
À l’eau le plus umbrageux,
Elle est morte.

Hier.
Mon Dieu,
Elle n’est pas ici.

Et moi,
Votre ami,
Je ne me suicide pas,
Je me manque l’intensité,
La courage,
La tristesse.

Soit-il que je te n’avais pas aimé?

Nous ne sommes unis non plus

 

My Love (Lover)

My love,

Like the moon

The giver

Of softness

To the darkest water,

She has committed suicide.

Yesterday,

Together…

In the morning,

I love the sunlight;

In the evening,

I cried.

… Today…

Broken-hearted,

Deadened spirit,

Insensible…

…Numbness…

My love,

Like the moon

The giver

Of softness

To the darkest water,

She is dead.

Yesterday.

My God,

She is not here.

And me,

Your friend,

I do not commit suicide,

I lack the intensity,

The courage,

The sadness.

Could it be that I did not love you?

We are together no longer.

 

 

On Doubts

Doubtlessly,

Expanding one’s mind

Is a

Good practice.

For today’s mind, anyway.

Doubtlessly, too,

Tomorrow will not be

The end of the time–

We are not approaching

The last syllable

Of recorded

Time.

But are we approaching

The last syllable

Of recorded mind.

Doubtlessly,

The line of time

The passes

Through

Our heads

Today

Will continue

On into the forever-future.

With or withour us?

Not that it matters.

The line of endless time

May be an illusion

Of finite mind.

When the mindless mind nears,

Will time end?

Of course.

Unless.

Not that it matters.

Still, it interests me.

If drugs can end time,

Should we mourn?

Yes.

But, mourn for what.

Everywhere,

Minds are expanding

Beyond the puny strength

Of weakening bonds.

Chemical, that.

Physical and good

The mind expansion.

That proof,

By nature of the

Chemical change

Working on

A brain.

Some drugs restore bodily balance.

When already in balance,

Some drugs

Affect the

Body and mind

In strange ways.

The ways seem good.

The changes feel right.

That is the acid truth.

Yet,

200 voyages,

And the mind is dissolved.

That seems bad.

But a little dissolution

Never hurt anyone.

After all,

That’s what makes life

Worth living.

Let the mind expand.

If something

Goes drastically wrong,

The mind–

Is it yet aware?–

Can pretend

To see ahead

The end of time.

Doubtlessly,

The end will be painless.

Do not say unreal.

The mind no longer

Feels the difference.

Reality is not objective,

But what the drugs

In your head say it is.

Choose your drug carefully.

The mind must not know

When it ceases

To exist.

That could hurt.

Choose carefully–

It may save you your

Sanity, if not your soul.

Doubtlessly,

Choosing carefully

Is a good practice.

 

 

Picture Yourself

Picture yourself

As a green tangerine

Picture me

As a funny

Red apple

Picture the shelf

Where together

We sat

Until Peter came by

And went

Chomp chomp,

Bye bye

 

“ATHEIST’S LAMENT”

Pity the Lord,

Full of Nothingness,

From the Drinking Gourd,

Around and down to Loneliness.

A few thousand years

Of pretended existence;

One prayer was salt on his tears,

Many the rest merest nonsense.

He’s been waiting for Relief

Ever since he got assigned;

Patient and docile in every belief,

Jobless for eons yet never he whined.

Pity the Lord,

The Myth of our mind;

Nothing to do, nothing to hoard,

Longest wait for man,

His higher half to find.

 

 

The Poet

The poet

Gently

Chides

His soul,

Makes sorrow from

Neglect,

Patience from despair

He sets his heart on fire

With throbs of thrilling

Fantasies

Quenches the fire

Subliminally

When the blazes burn too bright

It does not matter muchly

That people daily die

Their deaths are tragic

Until forgotten

The poet

Composes

Poetry,

As a prison

For

Forgetfulness

The poet immortalizes

My death

In words of

Eternal sadness

But would he celebrate

Your life

Your precious life

In strengths

Beyond

His puny

Poetic ways

If you called to him

Would his hands accept dirt

If we gave him dirt

Saying

Here, eat this

So others may live

I fear the poet neglects his soul

The better to chide it

Despairs so that he may be patient

Fires his heart

That he may be overpowered

By its strength

And earn the luxury

Of subsiding passions,

In the twilight which sweetly follows

That orgiastic moment

That orgiastic

Burst

Of poetic inspiration

Who asks for his poems

Of eternal sadness when I die, anyway

Not I

 

 

where the purple has gone

i feel dark

during this time of dusk

a curious time, of

orangish skies

conceived

in softest purple

night will come

i should be dressed in black

emerging

into light

blindness

in the contrast

of lighted room

and blankest window

calm and serene, all posture

or does one say stubborn?

what difference

to care deeply

not to worry

or pretend

or laugh falsely

to be black

avoiding frivolity

smiling

if i must

ready to be seen

to open

with all quietness

to depths unknown

will anyone ask

or will they only admire

for having dressed

in masculine black

 

Sadness Over a Friend’s Death

The sadness

Of a dying

Friendship

Simple somber sadness

Leaves

Me dreamless

Sleepy

Sleepless

Unable to care

Or to wonder

As I lay here

Pained

Yet painless

No newer sweetness soothes

 

Sadness over a Friend’s Death

Spiraling sadness,

Invisible swirling

Its death into dimness,

Searches for sorrow.

No newer sweetness

Soothes

The silent,

Fleeing

Friendship.

Oldest dreams

Slowly detach,

Slip away,

Spiral

Through

Endless slumber.

Hazily

Come memories, as night nears–

Crooning

Me to sleep no more.

The slowing cradle,

Guardian once

Of freest fantasies,

Barely touches memory:

The cradle no slower creaks.

And fantasies of yesteryear

Are fallen into nothingness,

Afraid of memories that are

In steady decay.

The sadness

Of a dying

Friendship,

Simple, somber sadness,

Leaves

Me dreamless,

Sleepy,

Sleepless;

Unable to care,

Or to wonder,

As I lay here,

Pained, yet painless.

No newer sweetness soothes.

And spiraling sadness,

Invisible swirling

Its death into dimness,

Asks me for sorrow.

 

MISSIN’ MARTHA BLUES

Missin’ Martha blues:

Miss her

Like I miss

A rosebush,

Gone bloomless

For the winter.

Miss her

Like I miss

A dog I was petting,

After it leaves.

Miss her

Like I miss

The moon,

On a moonless night.

Without her here,

Rose and blues,

Dog and moon,

Come or gone

Or come again,

All are like

A forlorn beauty…

If only they

Were of a witch’s course,

Then maybe they were she:

Come forth! Come forth! Verily, I cry.

Not coming forth,

A forlorn beauty,

They!