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to wake to winter in the coming out of the time of year

when they release

the masterpieces,

but to be still in the other night.

some drown in movies.

some prefer the unfinished

ungovernable recital,

a mystical ecology

where one dies in a camp,

or rolls out with the dice

on the sidewalk among boys with

cardboard shields

and plays dead in white crinoline.

what if paradise was only lifting the veil to flirt.

no one perfect, but perfection inserts

us so, Pascal

1.

between the object and the floor
the couch is a pedestal and a shawl
and just woke up her hair. she never

ever leaves the floating other house

but through some stories they call.

later that was her name the collaborator

of things shine in the picture. hand

flew off her early hair though held

by flowers. later her name was grete.

her hair feels angles by flowers that

before her name was shori the
penetrator in the history of no décor.

the archive dance of

frank gehry crumples

to the sky its finger
and walking bridge.
the mummers disappear
my city sounds.
dance crumples to

the archive sky of fela.

the breaking public crush
a lot and pilgrimage from

greenville (to farmville) to ruleville up the road.
let me place Mrs. Hamer, who

crush like an architect outside, like

broke composition, in parchman.
lula and helena strayed
to the dock, founded the hiding

republic of the westside trucks to come

I didn’ t fall in love. I fell through it:

Came out the other side moments later, hands full of matter, waking up from the dream of a bullet tearing through the middle of my body.

I no longer understand anything for longer than a long moment, or the time it takes to receive the shot.

This kind of gravity is like falling through a cloud, forgetting it all, and then being told about it later. On the day you fell through a cloud...

It must be true. If it were not, then when did these strands of silver netting attach to my hair?

Razors pain you;
Rivers are damp;
Acids stain you;
And drugs cause cramp.
Guns aren’ t lawful;
Nooses give;
Gas smells awful;
You might as well live.

The same to me are sombre days and gay.
Though joyous dawns the rosy morn, and bright,
Because my dearest love is gone away
Within my heart is melancholy night.

My heart beats low in loneliness, despite
That riotous Summer holds the earth in sway.
In cerements my spirit is bedight;
The same to me are sombre days and gay.

America I’ ve given you all and now I’ m nothing.
America two dollars and twentyseven cents January 17, 1956.
I can’ t stand my own mind.
America when will we end the human war?
Go fuck yourself with your atom bomb.
I don’ t feel good don’ t bother me.
I won’ t write my poem till I’ m in my right mind.
America when will you be angelic?
When will you take off your clothes?
When will you look at yourself through the grave?
When will you be worthy of your million Trotskyites?

Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy!
The world is holy! The soul is holy! The skin is holy! The nose is holy! The tongue and cock and hand and asshole holy!
Everything is holy! everybody’ s holy! everywhere is holy! everyday is in eternity! Everyman’ s an angel!
The bum’ s as holy as the seraphim! the madman is holy as you my soul are holy!
The typewriter is holy the poem is holy the voice is holy the hearers are holy the ecstasy is holy!

I

Sometimes when my eyes are red
I go up on top of the RCA Building
and gaze at my world, Manhattan —
my buildings, streets I’ ve done feats in,
lofts, beds, coldwater flats
— on Fifth Ave below which I also bear in mind,
its ant cars, little yellow taxis, men
walking the size of specks of wool —