Having begun, stop before you can begin, or lose what you began.
Could be of a given mood, time of day. Sentimental, like the Lindbergh baby.
Caught a glimpse today. About 4:15 p.m. Walking on Main. Aural.
Also last Sunday , caught a glimpse. I is a comma.
These glimpses move fast, like this, but mean more. Or it would take infinitely longer, to say all they mean.
The glimpse: caught, it makes the humdrum, which hadn't till then seemed so, worthwhile. Hadn't till then seemed humdrum, but was of a sudden recognized as such, a stultification of a life, no doubt many others but what of them, except they are the ones addressed, if any save oneself, a case of missed and lost directions leading to a mirage.
I come back to the hills when as he once was he walked them. The lightish gray of the rocks, the heathers with a color all theirs. How the shoulder slopes up to the head. A pair in the evening sky and stick some trees in halfway up on the left for effect.
And us asking Are you coming or going. Through that thing.
It's starting to read like Halvas Halverström. His youth amid stark landscapes, the provincialism of his situation, pretty much isolated in a poet's imagination, the very faculty he had himself created by the time the first person thought. I figured the bees did it. Don't remind me how it comes out.
Gets better and better, stays in Biarritz, stars in the movie, how is it easier? To ease is our burden, as in song. As in Take out the trash. Heard you today.
In my ear, like inside. A mental personage, mouse in a mousehole. I blank, therefore I kill. And the opposite also. You were present, or nearly so, honking from across the street on a hot afternoon in Santa Rosa in 1888. These mediocre shocks say Superstructure. Please introduce myself.....
.....Now an I, I locate myself in the alphabet. There's a kind of lemon tastes like a kumquat. Yet it's yellow, lemon yellow, with a hard rind. When I think tomorrow, I hope all that's merely accidental peels away from this project so that the waste of time is justified.
The heat continued.
I imagined import.
You were wearing a swimsuit. Wore one. WW One. Two. Bikini. Anything to protect from Nothing to hide. Shoveled mounds, pits. Abort.
A bright morning around about ten o'clock. Mauve, purple and green blossoms. Look at those leaves! O overarching blue, background to these silhouettes.
Leave me alone. I am only a poem. What do you want from me?
— That you save me from my life.
— That you rescue my life from me.
.. .. ..
— Answer me when you speak to me.
These glimpses. Making the humdrum humdrum. Making the humdrum worth the enduring, which till then it hadn't felt was the right word.
Lonely. Being so lonesome you could, would sooner, if it were only an easier act, die. Feeling as if those occasions rich with interaction never were. People felt as close, intimate, only names, those names reducible to distance, the word distance. Keeping alive the Romantic impulse.
When they're shittin praise upon you, when you doin a good job, that's what you tell yourself, when they payin for your meals and liquor or carrot juice, when five, six errands get done in a day, by you yourself, entity bearing that name they called and sent you by all those long unrecallable years,
then you really alive, livin, but now the alienation is from you sad soul that have bin th motor powerin all what you done they sayin they loves you for.
Well none of the above is what we want a poem to perform today. Study the model and get back to us in three months. It's an ugly thing, to see a sack believed pristine with the stillness of style start squirming like something slimy is stirring inside.
The unity implicit in the system of sound is the body's not the mind's.
Glimpsed you today. Again. 10.32 a.m.
Unbearable.
The beauty of the wound.
Slow endlessness of the suffering to be done.
The mauve, purple and green flowers.
The noun returning to verb.
Then white butterfly turning them to stone, stone it sips from.
Wanting to heal it, to cover it with my bodymind.
When we hug. When we admit all that must not be.
Then walking off, as if back, into the own life, the community life the community willy nilly assigned to you at your frequent applications.
"The unborn populate the labyrinth with the born."
Poetry akin to the clash of cymbals. Forestalling thought's music. But I aim, thereby I am.
Sitting in this chair. Sitting in it and asking, Why this chair and not some other. Answering, it could have been some other, some other view, some other landscape, climate, sky. How one shines, in that other life!
Sensing the string tighten around the neck of the sack, Lo! these long years in their accruing.
Bringing it all back home.
Thinking oneself the it in that famous line.
Thinking oneself the all met parts of x.
Speaking as x.
To x.
Here behind the glass panes, the flowers, the distance to the blue.
I want this to end, to go on.
To be in the zone.
Oblivious to the tectonic grinding of everyday consciousness.
Oblivious to the LA of my life moving towards the SF of my life.
To be in the zone, you said.
Dear X, thanks for your words, and there are many. Too bad the same ones come to me again and again.
Times playing soccer I was one with one, in the zone.
Or lovemaking. What were their names. Teammates.
Acid, intermittently, in the strobe.
Dear me X, I am ceasing to sound myself. Myself the zone.
Sounding myself in the zone.
What if this were, for we can imagine so much,
Farewell for ever,
the onlie begetter.
So he sat right down and wrote himself. A series of letters.
When the music stops, embarrassment can be heard coughing.
"With all kinds of signs we read about the dead."
(All indicated citations are from Lars Gustafsson.)
"They warm each other and they sleep."
Ahem. Skirting the issue. Where the clothing meets the nudity, there nakedness awaits.
I saw a boat go by with a solitary woman paddling skillfully, knowingly. She was wearing shorts and her thighs, knees, calves were good examples of the species. As the boat approached I saw her name. It was my middle name.
It was another presentation of the poetic kind merely such as poets anticipate but can't predict. So the daily life is watched with one ear cocked. One ear cocked and one to the ground. Wheels spinning like as not. (Read the poem entitled "Occ. Haz.")
It won't go on forever except as the observer is transferable.
Greg Allman singing Wake up Momma, turn your lamp down low.
What was that glimpse again.
Of someone speaking. A woman. In her 20s.
Unclothed but no nude.
That is you reclining in a glade in 1953.
Sitting in a boat. Standing balancing to land.
Excitedly. Agonized. About to act or let it be.
Let bliss be. Let the everyday be bracketed.
Squinting as the light turns your eyes more green.
In the movie, the focus is on the long wrists, the long fingers.
Chance will never abolish the throw of the dice.
seen
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