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Sleep to sleep through thirty years of night, a child herself with child, for whom we searched through here, or there, amidst bones still sleeved and trousered, a spine picked clean, a paint can, a skull with hair Sewn into the hem of memory: Fire. God of Abraham,God of Isaac,God of Jacob, God not of philosophers or scholars. God not of poets. Night to night: child walking toward me through burning maize over the clean bones of those whose flesh was lifted by zopilotes into heaven. So that is how we ascend! In the clawed feet of fallen angels. To be assembled again in the work rooms of clouds. She rose from where they found her lying not far from a water urn, leaving herself behind on the ground where they found her, holding her arms before her as if she were asleep. That is how she appears to me: a ghost in heaven. Carrying her arms in her arms. Blue smoke from corn cribs, flap of wings. On the walls of the city streets a plague of initials. Walking through a fire-lit river to a burning house: dead Singer sewing machine and piece of dress. Outside a cashew tree wept blackened cashews over lamina. Outside paper fireflies rose to the stars. Bring penicillin if you can, surgical tape, a whetstone, mosquito repellent but not the aerosol kind. Especially bring a syringe for sucking phlegm, a knife, wooden sticks, a surgical clamp, and plastic bags. You will need a bottle of cloud for anesthesia. Like the flight of a crane through colorless dreams. When a leech opens your flesh it leaves a small volcano. Always pour turpentine over your hair before going to sleep. Such experiences as these are forgotten before memory intrudes. The girl was found (don’t say this) with a man’s severed head stuffed into her where a child would have been. No one knew who the man was. Another of the dead. So they had not, after all, killed a pregnant girl. This was a relief to them. That sound in the brush? A settling of wind in sorghum. If they capture you, talk. Talk. Please yes. You heard me right the first time. You will be asked who you are. Eventually, we are all asked who we are. All who come All who come into the world All who come into the world are sent. Open your curtain of spirit.

It's all in a day's work   the door from Life to Death Muhammed Ali comes in one door   and Russ Meyer comes in t' uther     While Ali Stages a CONFAB at 11.00 AM but doesn't show all the cameras and tape-recorders are left With their tongues hanging out in the heat Under the veranda I just recoveredd from food-poisoning & look up AUSTRALIA AND NEW ZEALAND SHAKE HANDS How'd you doo It is prophetic I meet a child born at the same hour and day as my oldest child I learn   your Anglo   grandfather became the ArchArchimandrite Of Alexandria “for all the Greeks downunder” MOHAMMED ALI GIVES his speech finally “On the Intoxications OF LIFE” (That's for Real, Folks) and tells one girl sitting up near the stage to pull her dress down because it was “showing” above her knee   That's it it's all Over wham boom! Now Russ MEYER must be the “greatest” genius of America (?) His “genius” lies   in that he is the only one to successfully make blood spurt from a victim on the silver screen like a slide trombone carying a hilarious note .... So many things have happened   The People's Liberation Army has seized the Israeli Ambassador ('Ray'.)   Bedford- Stuyvesant exploded again   (I wonder what's happening on Killens' block?)   and lava has overflowed on  (Mt) Aetna (again) Can't keep upt with it all This Hermaphrodite   running up and down the stairs with a sword   Hey! The doors slam open  the crowds emerge Like an age ashamed of itself Like an elephant with a  caulifflower ear      Some are doing A St. Vitus dance and shooting fireworks out of cactus-launchers You come toward me like a diffident haystack I'm talking to you all the time you pretend not to hear me You're with your two pals   (One of them the “returned” of the Boogey Woogies)   the road parts us   like a part in the hair of the whole Earth   and splits me with it The stars make a sound like a tuning-folk Maybe I'm learning anew lanaguage to speak a newlanguage Maybe What is this   Cult of the Fedora hat and the jalopy of the heart Rose of Lima   Unbeliever that I am  I believe in you so much “Plebiscite”              “Dolores” .... “Quitting Time” Washerwomen in the elephant grass   're listening Once again I come upon an evening 5,000 mi. away from (New York) the mirage of “The City” become so obsessive I see Skyscrapers appear moving through the fog on horses' legs! “With no interjection...,oh?” New York  my poems are always an elegy to you The horses see me coming the horses smell the sunset wing Zapata...in whiteshadow still rides on it Gold-club-headed exorcized Jewish demons happily hopping backwards May 25, 1971 2405 Alpine Road, Ca.

At family gatherings, a Family Friend liked gathering the girls to make us sing rounds. We always wanted the spooky one, Have you seen the ghost of Tom? Long white bones with the rest all gone

“Come, surly fellow, come! A song! “What, madmen? Sing to you? Choose from the clouded tales of wrong And terror I bring to you. Of a night so torn with cries, Honest men sleeping Start awake with glaring eyes, Bone chilled, flesh creeping. Of spirits in the web-hung room Up above the stable, Groans, knocking in the gloom The dancing table. Of demons in the dry well That cheep and mutter, Clanging of an unseen bell, Blood, choking the gutter. Of lust, frightful, past belief, Lurking unforgotten, Unrestrainable, endless grief From breasts long rotten. A song? What laughter or what song Can this house remember? Do flowers and butterflies belong To a blind December?”

after Pavese Under the trellised arbor, and our supper’s over in the memory I’ve found myself inside. L not speaking, and beside us the river sliding softly by. Now the light will fade to moonlit water. And in memory I work to make this lingering accurate and sweet. White ouzo and her hand that lifts the grapes, first to her lips, then to mine. I may as well speak to moonlight as to her. And the walls of Bruges light up again, a costume jewelry pearl string. Her profile and her shawl hugged tight against the breeze in memory’s flammable celluloid—flaring and gone, replaced by bread and grapes, a checkered tablecloth. The two chairs stare each other down, empty now, upon which moonlight flickered all night. The bread and grapes drip mist as dawn carves the morning with a chilly wind, slicing away both moon and fog. Now someone without a name appears—first the fevered hands, Dustdevil quick, that grope for the food in vain. Then the pale light shows the open mouth and rippling throat, white face on black water, sparrow-flock fast, its spiraling path. But the bread and grapes stay where they were, their smell tormenting that famished ghost, helpless to even lick away the dew that gathers on the grapes, blue fluted sides of the wineglasses. Dawnlight, everything dripping wet, and the chairs stare at each other, alone. Sometimes on the riverbank you can sense an odor—of grapes, or sex, or memory. It swirls through the moonlit grass. And now wakes someone always mute, someone without a body weaving also through the half-lit grass. The hoarse wail of someone who cannot speak, who reaches out but cannot touch the grass, and only the nostrils flare. Now the dawn will break, late autumn cold. To crave so endlessly the warmth— the blood-pulsing fingertip, the body to embrace, the pungent smells commingling. To rise like breath and slither through the trees and tangle every branch in this unappeasable longing, this endless lust for touch and smell which afflicts the dead. The souls in the trees face the gathering light. Other times, in the ground, the rain torments them.

I saw him His body a very pale sea, almost green Soaring above me in a different sphere With gold wings He had a blissful expression One maybe he never had Certainly he was always smiling, somewhere When he died I had just gotten betrayed by a friend I thought was mine I forgave him Was more just said You live through any of it But what is the red shoulder we long to see I thought that I too would reach a great canyon My arms and legs blissed out Instead I blossomed inside Oh I loved his wife and children But they were still here with me When my father died he went straight up to heaven When the ghost died he stayed with us for a while I forgot to mention that the wings were gold and green And the winds were heavy They held his body Afloat in air as if in the ocean I forgot to say that when it was summer I too measured the red bell heads I said the hell with it All of it Heavy air will you hold me Suspended in the ocean of time Where I will never see you again My skin gold and green Sweet king, you left us I know it Dark is dark The darkness, darnit It surrounds With heavy air Arms and legs suspended The head

1. The Winter: 1748 —Erasmus Darwin, 1731-1802

Thung joo Kwa yaa na povi sah Thung joo Kwa yaa na povi sah Tsay ohi taa geh wo gi wa naa povi sah pin povi pin povi do mu u da kun ka nee na nun dun naa da si tah. On top of Black Mesa there are flowers On top of Black Mesa there are flowers dew on yellow flowers mountain flowers I see so far away that it makes me cry. She opened her eyes slowly, as if to awaken from a trance cast by a song, transporting her to childhood, Back to the flowers growing atop Black Mesa, so far and yet clearly brilliant. Awake from the song, Gia focused on her daughter, anxiously awaiting to be taught a new song. The old woman chose to take her time, she had learned from experience, attention is better paid by children, when there is a little pause, and mystery in storytelling. Soon enough Gia spoke . . . “When I was a young girl, my family would camp below Kwheng sa po, during the farming months. We spent most of our days following my grandmother through rows of corn and playing in the streams below. One day white men came in a wagon, telling us about a school for Indians, run by the government. We were told this school would educate and prepare us for jobs in the white man’s world. None of us knew what any of it meant, but these men spoke sweetly offering grandmother a roll of baling wire for each child that went to school. Before we knew what was happening, we were sitting in the back of their wagon, on our way to government school, away from our families, to another man’s world. Often we would cry, out of loneliness, but this song helped us to remember our home.” Get thoughtfully straightened the pleats on her skirt, swallowing the last of her coffee. Smiling, she continued . . . “The government school taught sewing, I learned on an electric machine. By the time I returned to the village I could sew, but few of the people had heard of sewing machines, or even electricity. The machine I learned to operate as my trade could not be carried here and there, but this song you are learning, will always be carried in your heart, here and there.”

Awake in a giant night is where I am There is a river where my soul, hungry as a horse drinks beside me An hour of immense possibility flies by and I do nothing but sit in the present which keeps changing moment to moment How can I tell you my mind is a blanket? It is an amazing story you won’t believe and a beautiful land where something is always doing in the barns especially in autumn Sliding down the hayrick! By March the sun is lingering and the land turns wet Brooks grow loud The eddies fill with green scum Crocuses lift their heads to say hello Soon it is good to be planting By then the woods are overflowing with dogwood, redbud, hickory, red and white oaks, hazelnut bushes, violets, jacks-in-the-pulpit, skunk cabbages, pawpaws and May apples whose names thrill you because you can name them! There are quail and rabbits too—but I go on too long Like the animal, I must stop by the water’s edge to have a drink and think things over * That was good. The drink I mean I feel refreshed and ready for anything Though I’m not in Vermont or Kentucky unfortunately but in New York City, the toughest place in the world And it’s December Here someone is always weeping, including me though I tend to cry in monster waves then turn into a fish wallowing in my own salty Puddle! Look out If you aren’t wearing boots you’ll be sorry and soggy too * This season’s cruelty hurts me and others, I’m sure, who’d rather be elsewhere but can’t because of their jobs, families, friends, money It’s rough anyway you look at it But what can you do? It’s worse elsewhere, I’m sure Take Vietnam No thanks I think about Vietnam a lot, however and wonder if I’ll ever “see” it The way I’ve seen Europe, I mean Those pretty Dutch girls! They all ride bicycles In Venice you travel by boat or foot The metro and the underground register like the names in connection with them: Hugo, Stephen, Stuart, Larry, Lee, Harry, David, Maxine What does it all mean? I never ask that, being shy In this apartment in which I dwell these thoughts pass by I hope you won’t mind the mess when you do too * You just walk in up a flight and you’re in paradise A cup of coffee, an easy chair, a loving person waiting for you who’s washing the dishes, reading a book Outside someone’s worrying about love and not sitting down either He’s probably freezing his ass off right now! And other vital parts which would feel great in the country, taking a walk, a hike, shoveling snow Though you can do that right here * The hub of the universe is where I am in a night whose promise grows with me, unlike the snow melting in the gutter Whatever I do, it is beside me I look out the window, there is night I sit in this lighted room knowing this night Night! Night! I wish you’d go so I could go to the post office, the bank, the supermarket Why aren’t they open at night? I wonder Then realize I’m not the only person who’s considered in the grand scope of daily living There are those fast asleep who want to be and would be horrified if the post office, the bank, and the supermarket were only open at night for you can’t be all there all the time I myself am only here part of the time which is enough For there are other places to run to Uptown, for example, where energy rushes you like some hideous but intriguing chemical you can’t ignore and you want to absorb the wisdom these buildings have How do they feel so high up like that? Pretty good, they seem to say in their absolute way But it’s the people inside who turn us on By then you are gone off in a cab and you are not alone I am beside you The streets are familiar from just traveling through We rarely stop and when we do there’s a reason Which is too bad We miss a lot for this same reason * They’re probably feeding the chickens about this time The smell of chicken feed overwhelms me The rooster crows on a 7th Street fire escape Breakfast is ready There is a forest by the river near the barn where things are happening, a whole new world on the edge of dawn * My little world goes on St. Mark’s Place To be not tired, but elated, I sing this song I think of The Beatles and The Beach Boys and the songs they sing It is a different thing to be behind the sound then leave it forever and it goes on without them, needing only you and me Here I am, though you are asleep The morning of December 3rd dawns on me in the shape of a poem called “Giant Night” It must end before it is too late All over the world children will celebrate Christmas And families will gather together to give and take this season Other religions and customs will prevail in their own separate ways having nothing to do with Christmas Soldiers will cease fire Some won’t know the difference but might be able to sense it in the air The smell of holly, pine, eggnog The friendly faces of Santa and his elves All these will add up to something and be gone forever Just like what is here one minute and not the next.

Beside the highway, the Giant Slide with its rusty undulations lifts out of the weeds. It hasn’t been used for a generation. The ticket booth tilts to that side where the nickels shifted over the years. A chain link fence keeps out the children and drunks. Blue morning glories climb halfway up the stairs, bright clusters of laughter. Call it a passing fancy, this slide that nobody slides down now. Those screams have all gone east on a wind that will never stop blowing down from the Rockies and over the plains, where things catch on for a little while, bright leaves in a fence, and then are gone.