San
Francisco—30
April
2011:
Poetic Art: Morning begins ...
Lines
I won't
stand in
now.
It is
the empty
space
I seek:
The void
of Lǎo Zǐ (老子)
or a farmer's
end-of-day
peace of mind.
It's the same
for me
and the same
for you.
Think about it:
Emptiness and the sun going down.
Only an academic
spotting a difference
obtains
a grant
—wife so happy!—
and writes
a book
about it—
The "definitive" book.
If you must burn a book
That's the one to burn.
Change of season
colors,
contrasts;
staring hard
mind in another place:
new, never before.
Finally I see the light;
it's seeing the light.
Be Bukowski's
opposite
or try!
Don't say
what you mean;
Don't mean
what you say.
Just be mean,
PLAIN MEAN.
You'll love it!
Dont drink,
don't smoke;
bad for your health, old boy!
And never get mad,
slam your fist;
you could hurt it!
Angry?
Take a walk,
count to 10!
Sex?
Out of the question;
consider the moral issues involved!
And gambling?
Too risky.
You could lose your shirt.
Think about it!
Then what would you do?
Be Bukowski's opposite.
Play it safe.
Better safe than sorry ...
BUT IF YOU GET TIRED
OF THIS ROUTINE,
LOAD UP ON GIN,
FORGET YOUR HEALTH
AND FIND A PRETTY LADY,
OR EVEN AN UGLY ONE
AND, HEY,
F
U
C
K
TAKE A CHANCE,
BE ALIVE;
YOU'LL BE THE OTHER
SOON ENOUGH, BROTHER.
The young uns,
marinated in movies,
re-enact them
in their lives—
"shut the fuck up"
—which are then
not much:
Box-office hits,
personal failures.
Reading a text message
head down
he stumbled off the curb
and was crushed by a bus.
"No big loss,"
the message said,
"the product sucked."
The world is full of annoyances,
but what is annoying is subjective;
it's what you think should annoy you.
"Go for it", she said
when asked if it were okay
to open the window.
So what would she say
if the building were on fire
and there was only one fire escape?
"Sure, okay?"
The morning begins with a big bang,
an old man falling on the stairs
at Caffe Roma,
his head hitting the window,
solid sound of collision.
I wonder what he was thinking
the moment before.
Helped up,
embarrassed,
he acts like it was nothing,
even smiles.
But "nothing" leaves me in awe;
I'm sure he is seeing bright new stars.
Inspired by the breath of air
that contains all things
Lǎo Zǐ's void
Hawking's black holes
The Silence of all Silences
line creates line creates line
flowing like a river out of
space
empty
full
of
no
thing.
Be still;
wait for the coming.
Pick up that horn and blow;
fill the page with words;
cover the canvas with brightness and color;
and don't stop till
it's all there,
the breath gone,
the last word spoken,
the canvas bright, aglow.
Take a chance,
let it all go;
you may never have another.
Take a chance and
let it come;
it's there,
you know it is.
Don't let it die inside;
don't let it be
a thing forgotten.
And if it's mean,
let it be mean,
mean and nasty.
But if it's kind,
let it be kind
and generous too.
If it be a color,
let it be all colors
and every shade as well.
If it be a flower,
let it be all flowers,
let it be the biggest bouquet ever.
And if it be a song,
let it be your song
and my song
and their song
and ours;
let it be a symphony
of sound and song
resounding around the world.
And if it be love,
let it be one kiss
leading to another kiss
leading to a thousand
wet and naked kisses
leading to ...
Pick up your horn, man, and blow.
Spin the line long,
long, longer and longest,
and don't stop
till you see the words
written in the clouds in the sky.
If it be a present,
let it be Christmas
and a birthday
and Valentine's Day
and a wedding
celebrated on the same day.
Let it be diamonds and rubies and pearls
and gold and silver goblets
inlayed with mother of pearl ...
Spin the line, blow;
it's late,
don't let it go.
If it's food,
let it be an endless feast,
new wines served with each course.
If it's a fight,
breathe fire;
cut your enemy to ribbons
and wear them bloody
in your hair.
But if it be compromise,
walk a thousand extra miles
to make it the best
for both of you.
And you, father,
now planted on a green hill
overlooking the sea,
you didn't blow a horn,
fill pages with words,
or canvases with color;
you built flying machines
and space vehicles
in an era
of daring young men
just back from a war of necessity,
perhaps the only one of its kind;
and once,
when you were young,
you built a glider
and flew it yourself
off a cliff
overlooking the sea;
your mother was afraid you would die
but you didn't, did you!
Rest in peace now
and watch over us;
the job is done,
the work complete;
enjoy the view.
You too filled space
with great soaring things.
"He's out of touch with reality," she said.
"Whose reality," I ask myself, "his or hers?"
Why do people get up early?
To "get the worm"?
(I can understand that.)
Or, wearing the company badge,
To kill and loot with impunity?
(Probably.)