There will be days
When the muses sleep late
I don’t even believe
These mythical beings be
There is a flood
A rush of blood
A cosmic alignment
The assignment suddenly becomes clear.
Who am I to suppose
That these beings come specifically to me
That they only live under my tree
Bearing fruit for these hands to harvest
The stream is infinitely wide
With access on both sides
We all swim, drink and lie
We all shine as we all hide.
If nothing changes there will be no unduly wichek drops of chance. The glorious way home finds is walking not standing the road goes twisting up the high path I’ve the coding spot to fall aloe. In trust the begging drums are heeded. I live them curiously yet u deniable warm. If nothing goes broke in tumbles California brothers fall on swords. Muse call the foraging poets back to muckraking dropsy sunstone. I thank the freak computer gods for dillin g run my words for me. They know what tot hit when I go fast not j own what wil come is beast I just keepin hearing it in my head but something else is being translated. It’s line history itself. I hear and see one thing and later in savaged there is little truth left in the story. It spiced up the new meaning. It all changes again. Way back in the Paleolithic era, the rigorous survival was at Betsy the way for youth movements to struggle grandly. If nothing is transcribed in orderly , than nothing will be in orderly bled from old men’s heads. I want to be in the line of this magical transformation of words.
New Jersey, where have you been all my life?
I’m sorry I have only used you.
For passing through you.
For this I am truly remorseful.
Your beauty and marvel are beyond my comprehension.
I’ve not been worthy of your true Constitutional companionship.
I kneel in awe and pray you bestow.
Your blessings upon me once again.
As I once again pass through on my dull and mortal crusade.
Blind still to your majestic envelopment.
I don’t want to be a walking chalk line.
It is not becoming of a soul.
To frame everything as the scene of a crime.
Every day being framed.
Help me reduce this garment to its elemental dust.
And float it away on a burst of wind.
There should be an enclosure of gilded grace.
To illuminate an ether’s face.
What is this little blinking butterfly of light?
That appears before my eyes
It does not come at night
Only when the Spring or Winter days are bright
I come indoors and there it is
Following my gaze, obstructing, distracting
With its wings ghostly pulses
Translucent and amazing
Absorbed when looking into white
Yet proudly dancing upon the darker surfaces
She will never let me look directly at her
Darting just aside as I try to focus
Does anyone else see her?
What other apparitions of beauty am I deceived by?
Suddenly engulfed in too much New York. They all breath heavily under this din and crush. American Indians are still down here—savages, as they were called, by creators of stoic myths and merciless deities. Their words still hold a stone’s stance in the foundation. Manna Hatta.
If I give them credence, their ghosts will purge this sallow skin of guilt, wash this perfumed carcass of pomp, clean of lousy ease and perilous welfare. I can not give up the freedom. It holds me like a greased pup. We are hungry paparazzi with hairy teeth, halitosis of the memory, grandiose creators of googleplexic reasons to seek fame. But our fame is reserved for God alone. Now we wait down here on this shelf to secure a place in Heaven’s grave.
Just before early Autumn, this splash of bloody grace came to wake us from our holy slumber. A splash of bloody grace to help us remember. Help us remember the falling eyes. The fallen eyes sunken deep down here in the lower parts of Manhattan.