Z E P P O #2

So what's to say? . . . this dreary spring day, 
oh drizzle ! . . . , 
it clouds and grays the entire valley, 
as far as the eyes can feel,       this mood . . . . . 

riding back to front 
the high speed line slamming forward, jolting 
out from under the cavernous decaying city, up 
and over Ben Franklin 
across the once pristine Delaware 
high above William Penn's landing 
a Quaker's safe haven, and now, 
a harbor for mothballed ships of war . . . . . 

falling away below, as we rise and 
rush over the bridge 
into Walt Witman's Camden soup 
RCA land . . . home of the Victrola, 
bought out, lock, stock, and Victorian heritage, 
a curiously spotted dog with floppy ears, betrayed, 
along with the homeless, his master's voice in disarray, 
taken over by the Electric General 
clearly a sign of our times, 
with insiders turned in and trading, out of prison 
belly up, like a fish in our chemical dumps, our soupy rivers 
like this cesspool below . . . . . the Delaware

. . . . . A clear sign of the times 
where progress is business, and like fresh air 
our bodies \ our minds, becoming merely commodities 
bringing good things to life, with a vengeance 
(leider) and I too, as well as you, well on our way . . . . . 
to comfortably disgruntled resignation 

Ah, what the hell, so what do ya think can be done? 
it is all so very cost efficient, this bottom line lobotomy 
these institutional prostrate minds, busily generating revenues 
Addicted to their greed and quarterly profit reviews 
they're afraid to love, and full of chicken-soup 
in america's corporate paradigm 
Cambell's chicken noodle 
Camden, New Jersey. 

So who do we see ? 
gazing through these eyes, into each other's 
hesitant, your love and mine momentarily embraced . . . 
our kinship's unfolding, long dormant dimensions 
bonding a knowing, a recognition, an inclusion . . . . . 
Immaterial, yes, Yet in every aspect affecting 
our being's continued appreciation 
and hope 

 

 
 

PROTO POST MODERN BLUES: 
(Kay Why Zee Why El) 

I. (Proto Post-Modern Blues  .  .  . )

Tell ya what I'm gonna do  .  .  guitar lick
Gonna get down, with Richard Feynman  .  .  .
Yeah  .  .  .  goin' down  .  .  .  to Touva
With an improvised beat, in the heartland of Asia
Goin' down, like the Statesborro Blues  .  .  . 
A little harmonica please 

Slide, that bottleneck steal whine 
drivin' slow and easy 
down to Tanu Touva
In the middle of Asia 
somewhere
just outside of Outer Mongolia 
With Richard Philip Feynman  .  .  . 
his wild congas pounding 
We'll mingle with enigmatic throat singers 
intoning chromatic pop melodies 
Singing cryptic jazz of the steppes
obscure archetypes of 
The Proto Post-Modern Blues

 
 

II. 
Just consider, he says 
as observed from the earth 
venus returns . . . to the same spot in the sky 
In multiples of five hundred and eighty four 
days  .  .  . And the moon . . . the moon eclipses 
with the regularity of a law 
An astronomical hard fact 
relative to space and time 
as we are able to understand it . . . . . 

It is, he says, those "things" that do not neatly fit 
which are, pausing to think, most interesting, 
for then, you see, we must investigate 
These . . . shall we say . . . anomalies 
hopefully to discover a new dimension . . . . . 
a new level of explanatory simplicity 
Integrating, Unifying and Producing 
a more comprehensive and reliable map

 
 

III. 
And when, because of the time warp 
between your home 
and stockholm, 
The nobel committee call comes at 3 A.M., 
waking you up, as it were, 
from the dead . . . 
And you took it all as a joke, hanging up 
on the nobel prize for mathematics, 
or was it physics.

 
 

IV. 
Laughing out loud, anyplace
with a capital city named Kyzyl  (Kay Why, Zee Why, El )
has got to be interesting . . . . . 
Against insurmountable odds
the whole idea is to have an adventure 
or bust a gut
Chasing those spores of exploration  .  .  .  .  . 
for as we should know
you cannot fool with mother nature

Proto post Feynman
modern man blues
Two beats, in moire' rhythm 
creates three
Our world
an adventure  .  .  .
Oboes and Cellos
still, we live with death
Oh death, 
our life, 
Our world is flush 
with uncountable opportunities
 
 

~ ~ ~

Phila PA
02/03/89

 
 

IN THE REALM OF NEGENTROPY

those ideas 
and complex aggregates 
of ideas, patterns of life 
or organisms, societies and eco-systems 
which have remained 
have stayed in the game, longer 
which have continued to evolve 
and "survive" . . . . 
carry in their forms, 
in their pattern formations, 
evidence; 
a record of their own past growth, 
and how in their past 
these mental systems (successively) 
succeeded in solving 
those formal problems 
of pattern formation, 
within the ever|new and changing 
status quo ante
of our biosphere 
 
 

~ ~ ~

 
 

BIOSPHERE

at the thresholds of our knowing 
fleeting impressions of life's orchestration 
ascending and descending, spiral staircases 
organic imprints in a formal minuet of recognition 
dancing tracers, convergent, colliding, and merging 
information compared and combined, . . . 
unleashing and preserving life's morphogenesis. 
within natural history, knowing within time 
the screw lies on its side 
a sidewinder biting its tail 
contracts and expands 
sheading its skin 
in time, turning in upon itself 
spinning ball of smoke 
sphere of earth and water 
planetary household 
     mind 
processing, combing|comparing 
news of differences, decoded 
filtered, and marking differences 
re-coded, or translated . . . 
forms awakening in time 
 
 

~ ~ ~

 
 

KNOWING, KNOWING, KNOWN

Print a chrome steal piston ring 
under strobe-lights, on an axis spinning . . . 
a ball emerges, suspended, unillumined depths 
as multi-layered thresholds, our point of entry 
defines the planes of bilateral symmetry 
in two hands held, sensation, surges 
relative to the speed of light 
 

Wise and fractured images, focus 
as harmonic's multi-patterns dance 
transparent twine-ing spheres of diamonds, glowing 
sparkle wraparound within space and time 
convergent . . . eccentric smokering globes 
merge-ing organic wholes, osmotic 
membranes evolving an epistemic fusion 
 

Inclusive mental systems all 
locate mind outside, and within 
the skin . . . cooking fogs of mossy soups . . 
blending perceptor conceptions . . . 
released upon pre-encoded signal circuitries 
networking beings, societies, and 
larger systems home, . . . . . together 

all within incommensurably differing grains of time

 

Self-referent group-recursive habitual 
assumptions validated or superseded 
from within the web and net of differentiated 
societies of "individuals," 
classes of such, and classes of classes 
of this search and sorting through forms 
for harmony, . . . . . together 

forever disclosing emergent    mor-pho-genesis 
 

Dolphins leaping forward in liquid space 
diving through a sapphire only she can see 
a habit, enfolding progressions in a story . . . . . 
an infinite regression of relevant contexts 
maturation and concrescence 
coral calcifications, building cities . . . . . . . 
and the reef appears at who's pace 
on who's timecard, to what end ? 
 
 

~ ~ ~

 

MAYBE

Maybe it's just my brothers' death 
             just at their zenith  .  .  . 
The one, Dwight Wilbur "hey" Bale 
Marine Racing Hall of Fame recipient, 1972 
and the only double 'AA' blown fuel drag boat national champ 
in consecutive years, the world record holder for a decade  .  .  . 
with one thousand and eight hundred Horse Power 
in eighteen foot hydroplanes 
with names like Conquest, Lickity-Split and Down 'n Out 
skipping through the water, straight as a string, pure adrenalin 
the earth shaking roar of a MOPAR 392 winding to its shill whine 
at one hundred and ninety-eight miles per hour 
walking on water, in a seven second quarter mile  .  .  . 
all the really important accomplishments in life 
the Best, for a decade. a brief occupation 
from which there is no retirement 
"we don't retire, we just die"

 
 

Or maybe it's number two, Malcolm Lewis "mac" Bale 
who seems now, through the years 
just as tall and lanky as ever 
quiet, retiring and shy. 

D.W.  nick-named him smack 
'cause he could get lost in his own thought and concentration 
especially after work, at the car parts shop, 
he'd do up a number, have himself a beer 
and sit at the T V with a half gallon of ice cream 
in his lap, spaced past hearing his own name. 

but ya dare not rile him, his long hook arms flaying 
haymakers, all six foot four and three/quarter inches 
that wiry frame, masking his raw strength 
if pushed too far, his polite manner could boil over 
unleashing a subdued sense of quiet rage  .  .  . 

a true determination to undo injustice. 

yet, Mac wasn't a fighter, 
he was a gentleman, who loved machinery  .  .  . 
the tremendous rush of automotive speed, 
your head pushed back against the seat, 
pulling `wheelies' on his chopper, 
a candy flaked mother of pearl Harley, 
just plain going fast . . . . 
in his bright orange, chrome wheeled, '55 Chevy 
or yet again, in the drag boat hydroplane named Climax 
an' could he ever ride the water! only lost but one race, 
his first!

 
 

'til one day at Bakersfield 
he lost a prop-shaft . . . 
not enough horsepower, on a solo trophy run 
still, he wants to give the spectators a good show 
so, he got back into it, and the torque 
of eighteen hundred horses 
snapped the shaft and sent him and the boat hurling thirty feet 
or more, straight up, then tumbling into the water 

now, at one hundred miles per hour, they say, 
water has the consistency of cement . . . 
and on that last Sunday of January, 1970, 
at the age of twenty three, 
mac came crashing back into the lake 
at about a hundred and eighty 
with no parachute 

the years have passed, with time on my side 
and i have put down the family penchant for speed 
and the thrills of tempting suicide, 
still, even though i have made my peace of sorts 
with my brothers untimely end . . . . . 
from somewhere deep within my being I . . . 
a voice continues crying out 
for meaning 
 
 

~ ~ ~

 
 

AT ZACBARAN

waiting, along at the corner bar 
drinking alone   and driving home 
he just can't make it . . . 
love, anymore . . . 
can't stand the pains 
in the moments of fleeting pleasure 
can't stand the games 
nor, can he stand the rules 
can you explain? 

and anyone who could help him now 
is out to lunch by noon, or shut down 
somehow, too soon 
and it's just too late ! 

no time now, to change the score 
just shut the latch, twist the key 
slam your foot down . . . 
the excellorator 
clean to the wood, if you only could 
lurching forward 
impale your daemons 
on the hood ornament of the brand new packard; 
scattering your seeds to the wind, 
it's blowing freely 
through my hair 
and i don't give a fuck anymore 
 
 

~ ~ ~

 
 

TANABATA

he and she, like vagrants stand 
or sit, tapping their feet to the rhythms, 
unmoved. in one place, in this world, they are looking out 
through the shit soup of this universe. 
looking out from behind the nebulas, quasars 
and black holes of their own tangled constellations 
. . . . . . laughing out loud, 
at the stars, lights another cigarette, smiling, 
guarded faces, pours another beer, 
having a good time, to the ventures, 
walk don't run . . . . . 
he, with the sheepish dogs and wolves of the city, 
and she, locked tight behind but still pining ! 
they run away their moments ebb and burn rubber 
down on mainstreet. nowhere else to go at night, 
in this world ! in this universe. so we run, so fast, 
that if, from within ourselves, even only once a year, 
our stars come together, . . . . . the gears mesh 
with a horrible grind, we snap an axle, 
break a trans, or bust a u-joint 
and leave the driveline lying down on mainstreet, 
where once again, it's rainin' 
 
 

~ ~ ~

 
 

SKATING FIGURE EIGHTS . . . 8

this first death came in spring 
to prove to real, that life beyond 
and after a sort, must forever 
continuing be . . . 
undone and oozing pain, 
out of every crack 
and ruptured soft of gray, still smashed 
against the popcycle brittle neurons, 
of one's own delusions packed in dry ice. 

these small casualties . . . striking out 
in a sense, freeze you in your tracks 
and stiffen your back for months on end, 
but you will continue to function. 
then their words (of encouragement or not) 
will resound hollow, as your cries for help 
from within . . . . . the meat packers cold 
storage box . . . and you know that you 
are really out to lunch

 
 

on the second mourning
you say, you come to it 
this tomb, to find the stone 
rolled back, and the damage was gone? 
 
 

well, for Christ sake . . . 
don't be surprised, 
for here be we all, but 
nailed to the cross 
roads of the universe . . . . . 
with no end in sight 
 
 

~ ~ ~

 
 

JULY 25, 1980

by city street lamp 
           the lawn sprinklers' damp spray 
waters our night 
           cascading saxophones 
and delights in my thirsting senses 

a blue moon and full 
           she smiles and lulls 
the dreams of truth and light 
           the pale blue and wintry white
of pearlessence 

in the silence 
           the white goddess sings 
bright guitar solos without strings 
           and dancing a slow dance, rains velvet 
her beams of crisp illusion

 

such a moon
that by my rights
it rains a dew like misty light
and
summer softly speaks !



 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

 
 

SUNDAY MORNING JAZZ FOR FREE
AT THE HISTORISCHE MUSEUM

for those of us who see 
what could be breaking through 
against what has been, and remains 
the puss which pours forth 
from the torn and opened wounds 
of our shrinking, beleaguered world 
is such a bloody waste! 

i offer these words 
not in despair 
to that one what holds our world 
together; 
to whom every person, who labors 
for peace and selfless society 
offers their work 
 

may we all yet hear 
if not see, and through 
your grace, or whatever, 
may we find our way 
to harmony 
 
 

~ ~ ~

 
 

A CHRISTMAS PRAYER FOR PEACE
FIND YOUR OWN PUNCTUATION!

out of history's looking glass 
through a distant house of mirrors 
they are marching with death 
their only intent neatly ordered 
densely packed and lawless 
starvation their only harvest 
higher taxes and ruin 
their only successes 
marching through the centuries 
they return these bloody brigands 
in the guise of our ownly defenses 
ferocious maggots and terrible worms 
wielding "Mattel" it's swell toy weapons 
wrapped warmly in cold steel 
titanium cocoons 
under the tannenbaum incubating 
tanks and missiles 
multiplying with frightful confusion 
only too real father yuletide 

 
 

MY FRAGMENT OF THE EPIC

And we would be birds of the universe 
using metallic gliders, frisbee like 
to fling ourselves hurtling across 
unimagined lifetimes 
riding the jet streams of the stars 
inter-galactic winds 
far into non-euclidean realms 
inside ourselves 
 

While in fact our servants of death 
build dark atomic whales of destruction 
(but think of the jobs we've created) 
they strive to carve new empires 
in the hopeless mind, fragmented world 
bound by interlocking defensive networks 
leviathan systemic madness 
infecting us all . . . . . 

So long as the kings still hold their armies 

WE ARE ALL PRISONERS 
OF WAR ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! !

 
 

Bullshit! A curse on you fools
The streets of your cities
Will one day overflow
With the tears of your children weeping

bitterly weeping, choked and gasping
for breath
deaf and blind from years of media wars
and endless violence,
they will gather at dusk
in deserted industrial wharehouse districts,
park their transportation
and burst into tears
 
 

~ ~ ~

 
 

FATHER TIME

a dreary frigid spring day, 
his fragile hand 
shaky with age and 
smooth as soapstone 
slender fingers extended, 
tapping my right wrist . . . 
 

asking my being I , 
do you know, he almost wispered . . . 
what time is it? 
 

9:38 or :40, I replied 
 

how many seconds? 
he immediately queried back. 
 

how many ! ? seconds ? ! 
 

how many eternities 
left (asks our impending death) 
until my impeccably 
certain end? 
 
 

~ ~ ~

 
 

DIRECT ACTION DERIVED FROM FAITH
NEED NOT TASTE ITS OWN FRUITS. PROTEST!

once the hunter returned with arrow, bow 
and spear, to protect the revolution 
wrought by woman; using primitive hoe, 
sickle and seed. 
they returned enslaving 
newly found food stuffs 
in trade for security. 

how far evolved are we 
arrogant with metallic might 
missiles, bombs, land mines and cannon enough 
atomic (our security) 
in hard case shells, how swell, 
indeed, how secure, we all must be 
so mutually assured (are we) of self 
destruction, annihilation and virtual extinction, 
that is, no longer to be . . . . .

 
 

once the hunter returns
his call, allied to mod-secular industrial fools
nation-state prelates of progress
our most important product
our free booters
common brigands they be
with captains at their head and feet
organized, now respectably
rigid, and insistent that we all must
face certain collective death
for our own damn good, by God
for security
 
 

~ ~ ~

 
 

AT TWILIGHT,
NEAR THE OLD GREEN HOUSE

in the dead of august winter, we wander 
a murder of crows to our left,
vacating the ripened, yellow corn rows. 
a murder of crows, small wonder 
awash in this sweltering summer. 

in the heat of flight their leader 
detached himself from the rest 
crow spirit, screech / cawing 
perched upon my left shoulder 
proclaiming our collective epitaph . . . 
 

we must flee this ship 
and state of mind, he cried
or can you not foresee their folly
nor divine this tragedy, as well
as that which is approaching?

leave off! and find yourselves
be gone! and on the high-grounds . . .
well before the flooding
before the rising tides
the firestorms, and
sterile farmlands
decimate your kind
and plunder your society
 
 

~ ~ ~

 
 

OLD RAGGER WOMAN

We met 
an old ragger woman 
and I, 
my demons, 
on the U-Bahn, underground . . . . . 
her hair done up tightly 
in a red silken bandanna. 
her ragged, chiseled witch's face 
the hag of knowledge 
over-amping . . . . . 
eyes wide open, 
as if with toothpicks, 
or speed. 
 

she's just crazy
said Tina's anguished voice. 
dotty, thought I . . . . . 
with pages, typed single space 
full, on both sides! collected 
all tattered and yellow, 
preserved in clear plastic; 
notebook pages 
stuffed-shoved 
into her bag 
and falling 
all about

 
 

against the windows, now . . . . . 
she's pressing these yellowed pages 
(a narration, or what literary form ?) 
she holds them two, now three pages 
four, she's got more . . . and 
she wants to show us all . . . . . 

up against the Subway windows 
pressurized sliding glass doors 
rushing towards Mainz 
with my demons, my wife 
and this street hero 
exhibiting her life's work 
typewritten words 
filling up blank pages 
which she feels, as well 
compelled to show the world 
 
 

~ ~ ~

 
 

ON THE GRASSY KNOLL

sitting on the grassy knoll 
with young Bill Cody 
world wiser, more cautious 
than before, and just proud to be 
alive. . . . 
he talked quietly, preaching 
freedom and individual rights; 
defiance of the man's authority, 
as we sat below the Jesuits' 
plush residence, on the grassy knoll 
overlooking (southwest) 
the engineering center, and Marquette University's memorial 
library . . . inner-city Milwaukee, 
Wisconsin. 

he spoke, ya know, nasal, man, yet without a whine, 
his forearms branded with tattoos, self inflicted 
jail house scars, indelible mementos of his youth 
in faded blues, . . nondescript, insipid lines . . . 
crooked road maps tracing the patterns of a painful past, 
like worms embedded in his flesh

 
 

I WORK HARD, he says, to earn my money, 
so what do they expect me to do ? . . . 
pay fines for buying grass. 
A person's got the right, he says, 
to buy what he wants to with his cash 
. . . . inhales deeply, passing on to 
the young man on his left, and four separate tales, 
busted narratives, scrapes with the law . . . . . 
how he'd escaped, been let go, although 
minus his dough, unscathed everytime 
but the last. the texas bulls had threatened 
him with three years, ("cause they'd seen 
I'd had the money"), for holden just three j's, 
and then, for effect, 
they brutally assaulted one of his friends. . . . 

all this time, we're sharing a  j ,  getting down 
in plain view of the busy holiday traffic 
along Wiz-con-sin Boulevard 
self proclaimed, yet unawares 
this young man, a patriot, a saint 
a martyr 
.

 
 

So, he says, I told 'em I'd given enough 
in fines to po-lice, not judge-mental levies 
duly recorded and computerized, but bribes, man 
jus' taken from my stash / for linin' their pockets . . . 
and am i here 
defending these pockets of stubborn resistance. . . . 

this time, he says, they'd have to put me in jail, pause 
takes another hit, an' I almost got the shit 
kicked out of me, for sayin' that right out 
to the Dallas po-lice . . . 

"but then what difference could it make?" he says 
"they could kill me, even 
but they can't kill my soul" 

how strange for me 
to hear this particular upstate 
younger man 
preaching gospel 
truth, and grace 
under the warm sunless day 
blowing smoke 
into the balmy approaching storm winds 
of the Sabbath 
 
 

~ ~ ~

 
 

SNOW PRINCESS

winter's snow princess 
melting away 
in the 
august summer might 
smoldering 
jade white flesh 
her agile, gentle face 
no longer blemished 
in acrid city air. 

she used to hold me 
warm against icy city winds 
cold to the bone, we'd nuzzle down 
deep-n-cozy under the covers, 
raise our blood pressures 
beyond caring or craving 
and be 
inside each other 
in love 
. 
 
 

~ ~ ~

 
 

LITTERIS RECUPERATA LIBERTATE CIVITAS

In Alt-Sachsenhausen, at 24 Frankensteiner Platz 
through the warm clear haze of yet another pint of darkness 
The night glows damp and yellow, in foggy reflections 
triggers me, melancholy and introspective, not quite 
Staggering in the amber street lamps 
trailing off across steel and cobblestone streetcar rails 
Their reflections, bridging the river Main 
my life, immeshed with this, Existenz . . . 

In the distance, on the opposite shore, a roman temple, 
a facade, stands alone, a concrete illusion, bathed in spotlights 
Replacing the bombed out central library, this shell 
with its ancient Latin script, in gold relief proclaiming, 
LITTERIS RECUPERATA LIBERTATE CIVITAS 
"in letters restored a city's freedom recovered" 
Written, no doubt, as some sort of reassurance . . . 

The next day, at the flea market 
along Frankfurt am Main's riverside drive, 
Saturday morning is overflowing with people, over-people, 
the polluted river appropriately flooded with people 
Peopled to death, we meander through the booths, amazed
at the crowds, awash with trinkets, and trash 
This sad river's banks inundated with traders, consumers 
and merchandise

 
 

I bought a cotton suede jacket for only . . . twenty 
D-Marks. 
And what of love? 

A curve of the sun 
Shining deep in my belly, 
Butterflies in my stomach 

And life? 
It all seems a waste . . . . . . . 

And our national debt
its a fuckin' a sin
into the trillions . . .
But its only money
Toys for the boys
Give 'em your money
and more
Your sons and daughters
to play their games
of war
And we will all go down
together 
 
 

~ ~ ~

 
 

CASTING NETS
INTO THE OCEAN

i'd like to leave 
           the solar system 
                      for a four month's holiday . . . . . 
                                a cruise, or a cure 

for just one night, to sail 
          a pioneer explorer's craft 
                     through the atmospheric threshold 
surfing the edge of the sun's 
          expanding rays 
                    into the black unchartered abyss 
                              between the galaxies 
                        beyond where daemons lie 
            wandering the milky way . . . . . . . 

                          . . . encountering starsystems, 
                      every million years or so; 
           heliospheres 
breathing rippling tides 
         in these round, celestial blowfish 
                   pulsating in and out, 
                              stretched taut by shock waves 
                                         moving throughout the membrane 
                             from year-long stormsystems 
                raging upon, and across 
the solar face of life 

tossed into the cosmic sea 
            i'd do breast strokes side to side 
                       catch the rays 
                                  on white sand beaches 

and float on my back . . . 
 
 

~ ~ ~

 
 

MIRACLES WITH A HUMAN FACE
(to Dubchek, Havel and Czechoslovakia) 

. . . . . . . ten peaceful days, at the end of November, 
and the roses, just now blooming, light the frozen night! 
ten days in November, and at long last the Spring returns 
to Prague . . . at long last, in the ancient city 
resurrected, the people of infinite thought 
have brought a blizzard, a freezing wind of freedom 
blowing through an ice blue frozen jewel, the Spring, 
an Urquell, emerging in the faces of Bohemia. each one 
a snowflake, an arch light, a speck of frozen white, 
liberating the cobblestone alleys, 
smothering the boulevards of night, 
bringing back the light of Spring, 
bringing back the dead, and the roses 
and dreaming, whence we have never dared to dream, 
redemption, . . . where what's true one day, 
is not true the next . . changing hour to hour, 
the aging actors, people's poets, artists, students 
and the playwrights waiting (no longer) in the wings, 
through the long night to Spring, against all hope, 
the true folk heroes, re-emerging, refusing to die, 
the people of Tschechoslowakei, a striking phoenix 
sculpted in ice. and in their lead, just as in a fairy tale, 
Alexander Dubchek and Vaslav Havel, alive and well, 
with our hopes at the Urquell of Central Europe 
 
 

~ ~ ~

 
 

DIDACTICISMS

would my words be truer . . . 
           written on ancient parchment 
                       hidden through the centuries 
               in aging earthen jars, in some forgotten 
                                    Syriac or Coptic script 

would my words be truer . . . 
           written on quicksilver, or mirrors, 
                       the readers peering back at themselves, 
              between, as if from behind 
                         the lines of communication 
                                     attempted . . . . . 
                                or in a black bold face type 
               written on transparent sheets; 
                 glass, hung in a modern museum of freaks . . . . 
                  or plastic, bound with 10lb. fish line 

would my words be truer . . . . . 
            written in sand or granite, 
                       esoteric secrets of the heart and mind, 
                 combined as truly as a tear is 
           much more than the mechanical pumping . . .

 
 

would my words be truer . . . 
            much more than an intellectual thing, 
          so easily misunderstood, lost or soon forgotten----- 
    and rediscovered in every girl or boy 
      who laughs out loud, shrieks and 
        shouts of joy . . . 
                      who's made to feel 
                uncomfortably different, 
                              discovers at last 
                                   in words 
             of past and present, while we suppose a future, 
                        truth in words (when there be) 
   is wed to actions, contexts, interrelationships. 

each being differs 
            being their own song an' dance 
                      practiced, refined and edited, 
                                  their own poetry, 

     written on the solar winds 
in time 
re-if-I-ed 
 
 

~ ~ ~

 
 

SILENCE

the silent mind,
a quiet lake, . . . . . . .
a mirror, reflecting the seasons'
full moon . . . moon light! in all its moods,
a reflection, fading, disappearing over the tree tops;
reflecting life's passage, returning
tomorrow, and tomorrow, forever
fulfilling the cycles, in silence,
noise, . . the thinking pebble drops
into the mirror lake,
mind waves, (silence stops)
self . . . concentric circles
without any center,
. . . silence.

silence is but a word,
depicting a time
when there should be no words
not even in your mind, . . . . .
only awareness.

the only trouble with silence,
(and for that matter, awareness)
is that you cannot read it out loud, . . . . .
 
 

~ ~ ~