A Spiral and a Star

Driftwood (bright white) turns the flame
blue at its base,

                        Diane’s slight shake and
dry mouth

I watched her turn young again

and then a bit drawn and whimsical as we became reacquainted

Put to work at her bedside

transcribing tiny new Revolutionary Letters, Dawn Poems

snares that are set to explode across centuries

into further collapse?

Dream after Christchurch

After Freddie Mercury writhing up against your ear

                       turn heretic
                       and teach me the changes, elated
deep in dream
                       where I might find you
turning again, slender to the night.

-In memory of Diane di Prima-

---

Harry Callahan Poem

“The poems are
so minimal
because the garden
is part of them.”

mirror left
in a meadow
of sea grass

the lights point
their own way
out in tiny

stabbing gestures
(desperate) devil
at the end of

a crowded field
just his head
with both arms

held over as one
shadows break
to fake a moment

the rest past,
cold lake water
eye level

behind a screen
of winter trees
Venus left

lying on
a white
blanket

green intrepid
ferns or standing
nude before

the back lit
blinds, exquisite
doorways

comb the
sand into
pattern

the evening
sun and well
worn brick

“My flowers hang
from a ceiling
of leaves.”

---

All This Time

for Ed Berrigan

                     Wake up

Feel around for shoes

Sit warm at the wooden table

                    Write a tower of praises (oblations?)
                     in cold steel
type

       in praise of Ed Berrigan Industries, its massive
                                                                     sign tilting over

17 Reasons Why

                    (Now taking off!)

the crypto
                liquid metal
skeleton

still shows under
                             patches of
torn
       ankylosaurus

       stickers

                                        We once got trapped in Mark’s painted

                                        side shack
                                                          illuminations
                                        (Back when Jack held the most titles….

I feel much tractor about things now
                                                                 (and Selected Poem)

I feel long house
needles point
                     Icarus shoes

                     Sloppily painted plates
stapled into a set

                                    A coliseum for playing out music and

                                    poetry’s distortions. A kind of signing off repeatedly,

                                   All this time.