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I’ll fly off to a fjord in Norway, post “Oh the pain” above my doorway if you insist on going your way, for this is not a duck. That is what cowards say, and realists who run away, shun the appeal its rare white fur holds, although they feel it’s a rabbit full of pluck. Let’s multiply, let’s twitch our noses, let’s walk among the night’s dark roses, though where the oldest story goes is a place where tongues might cluck. I’ve had my share of quacks and hisses; whereof mouth cannot speak, it kisses; hop to it, man, and realize this is a lovely bit of luck.

The past will overtake alien force our house formed of my mind to enter explorer in a forest of myself for all my learning Solitude quiet and quieter fringe of trees by a river bridges black on the deep the heaving sea a watcher stands to see her ship winging away Thick noises merge in moonlight dark ripples dissolving and defining spheres and snares Place of importance as in the old days stood on the ramparts of the fort the open sea outside alone with water-birds and cattle knee-deep in a stream grove of reeds herons watching from the bank henges whole fields honeycombed with souterrains human bones through the gloom whose sudden mouth surrounded my face a thread of blue around the coast feathery moon eternity swallows up time peaceable as foam O cabbage gardens summer’s elegy sunset survived

I see you shuffle up Washington Street whenever I am driving much too fast: you, chub & bug-eyed, jaw like a loaf hands in your pockets, a smoke dangling slack from the slit of your pumpkin mouth, humped over like the eel-man or geek, the dummy paid to sweep out gutters, drown the cats. Where are you going now? Though someday you'll turn your gaze upon my shadow in this tinted glass I know for now you only look ahead at sidewalks cracked & paved with trash but what are you slouching toward—knee-locked, hippity, a hitch in your zombie walk, Bighead?

eviction people arrive to haunt me with descriptions of summer’s wildflowers how they are carpet of fierce colors I bet you hate to see us they say and yes I do hate to have to move again especially from here destruction brought to place of love the uneven smiles that win she’s a business woman blond tints that glow at sunset as profits rise alas what labor I employ but to ensure a moment’s joy sets branches trembling & arms chilled dear one long returning home, come to clammy feverish details, muffed sorrow I turn to throw a tear of rage in the pot never remorse but hint of scruples I’d hope for it is error it is speculation it is real estate it is the villain and comic slippery words the work of despotic wills to make money I scream take it take your money! make your money go on it’s only money, here’s a wall of dry rot here’s an unfinished ceiling, just a little sunlight peeks through this (lark, no luminance! exquisite St. Etienne stove doesn’t work icebox either too hot or frozen firescreen tumbling down kitchen insulation droops is ugly & a mess ah but love it here, only surface appearances to complain of, nothing does justice to shape of actual events I love but a fight against artificiality its inherent antagonism, bald hatred of moving and problem of thirsty fig tree in Burroughs apartment wakes me I don’t want to go down there yet & how to orchestrate the summer properly the problem of distress & not denying pride from it too atomized to make pleasure of melancholy & an uncontrollable enthusiasm for throne & altar I want to sit high want simple phalanx of power independent of everything but free will & one long hymn in praise of the cabin! it is a confession in me impenetrably walled in like aesthetics like cosmos an organ of metaphysics and O this book gives me a headache dear Weston La Barre let’s have an argument because I see too clearly how rational I must be & the kernel of my faith corrupted because you have no reliance on the shaman & outlaw or how depth of mind might be staggering everywhere except in how important science is science? no he won’t he fooled by visions whereas I wait for dazzling UFOs they announce will arrive high in these mountains I repair the portal even invite stray horses in have a little toy receiving station that sits by the bed at the edge of night all thoughts to place of love all worries to this place of love all gestures to the place of love all agonies to place of love, thaws to place of love, swarthy valley sealed in wood, log burst into flame in home of love, all heart’s dints and machinations, all bellows & pungency antemundane thoughts to palace of love all liberties, singularity, all imaginings I weep for, Jack’s sweet almond-eyed daughter to place of love, & heavy blankets and terracing & yard work & patch work & tenacity & the best in you surround me work in me to place my love dear cirques, clear constraint, dissenting inclinations of a man and a woman, Metonic cycle all that sweats in rooms, lives in nature requiems & momentum & trimmings of bushes dried hibiscus & hawks & shyness brought to this place of love trees rooted fear rooted all roots brought to place of love, mystery to heart of love & fibers and fibers in sphere of love a whole world makes spectators of slow flowering of spring & summer when you walk to town for eggs and continuous hammerings as new people arrive & today we notice for first time a white-crowned sparrow out by the feeder with the chickadees & juncos & I missed that airplane-dinosaur in dream nervous to travel again, miss buds pop open to shudder in breeze, their tractability makes sudden rise of sensibility you are shuddering too & your boy laugh comes less frequent now you’re drawn into accountability, will I return to find all stuff tidy in silver truck ready to go? it’s you in this place I lose most because it’s here in you I forget where I am, this place for supernaturals perched high in sky & wind, held by wind in stationary motion as bluebird we observe over meadow or caught up with jetstream dipping in valley’s soft cradle power & light & heat & radiance of head it takes power & light & heat & radiance of head it takes to make it work while down there someone building replicas of what it feels like to be a human multitude, fantasy molded clumsily, spare my loves and love of glorious architecture when you really put outside in, the feeling of cloud or mountain or stone having developed an idea of idyllic private life & sovereignty of spirit over common empirical demand I tell you about renunciation, I tell you holy isolation like a river nears ocean to dissolve and cabin becomes someone’s idea of a good place discretion you pay for it wasn’t mine either but sits on me imprints on me forever splendor of fog, snow shut strangers out gradual turn of season, ground stir, pine needle tickle your shoulder, peak curve, fresh air.

Behind the house in a field there's a metal box I buried full of childhood treasure, a map of my secret place, a few lead pennies from 1943. The rest I've forgotten, forgotten even the exact spot I covered with moss and loam. Now I'm back and twenty years have made so little difference I suspect they never happened, this face in the mirror aged with pencil and putty. I suspect even the box has moved as a mole would move to a new place long ago.

If all the trees in all the woods were men; And each and every blade of grass a pen; If every leaf on every shrub and tree Turned to a sheet of foolscap; every sea Were changed to ink, and all earth's living tribes Had nothing else to do but act as scribes, And for ten thousand ages, day and night, The human race should write, and write, and write, Till all the pens and paper were used up, And the huge inkstand was an empty cup, Still would the scribblers clustered round its brink Call for more pens, more paper, and more ink.

I watch your hands at the keyboard Making music, one hand with a tiny jot, A birthmark I think where finger bone Joins palm, mark of the fish, Living thing in search of a watering Hole set in a walled garden, Or in a field with all the fences torn: Where I hear your father cry into the wind That beats against stones in a small town Where you were born; its cornfields Skyward pointing, never sown, never To be reaped, flagrant, immortal.

Crashing again—Basquiat sends fenders & letters headlong into each other the future. Fusion. AAAAAAAAAAA. Big Bang. The Big Apple, Atom's behind him— no sirens in sight. His career of careening since—at six— playing stickball a car stole his spleen. Blind sided. Move along folks—nothing to see here. Driven, does two Caddys colliding, biting the dust he's begun to snort. Hit & run. Red Cross—the pill-pale ambulance, inside out, he hitched to the hospital. Joy ride. Hot wired. O the rush before the wreck— each Cadillac, a Titanic, an iceberg that's met its match—cabin flooded like an engine, drawing even dark Shine from below deck. FLATS FIX. Chop shop. Body work while-u-wait.In situ the spleen or lien, anterior view—

Far, far from here, The Adriatic breaks in a warm bay Among the green Illyrian hills; and there The sunshine in the happy glens is fair, And by the sea, and in the brakes. The grass is cool, the sea-side air Buoyant and fresh, the mountain flowers More virginal and sweet than ours. And there, they say, two bright and aged snakes, Who once were Cadmus and Harmonia, Bask in the glens or on the warm sea-shore, In breathless quiet, after all their ills; Nor do they see their country, nor the place Where the Sphinx lived among the frowning hills, Nor the unhappy palace of their race, Nor Thebes, nor the Ismenus, any more. There those two live, far in the Illyrian brakes! They had stay'd long enough to see, In Thebes, the billow of calamity Over their own dear children roll'd, Curse upon curse, pang upon pang, For years, they sitting helpless in their home, A grey old man and woman; yet of old The Gods had to their marriage come, And at the banquet all the Muses sang. Therefore they did not end their days In sight of blood, but were rapt, far away, To where the west-wind plays, And murmurs of the Adriatic come To those untrodden mountain-lawns; and there Placed safely in changed forms, the pair Wholly forgot their first sad life, and home, And all that Theban woe, and stray For ever through the glens, placid and dumb.

Nu scylun hergan hefaenricaes uard metudæs maecti end his modgidanc uerc uuldurfadur sue he uundra gihuaes eci dryctin or astelidæ he aerist scop aelda barnu m heben til hrofe haleg scepen. tha middungeard moncynnæs uard eci dryctin æfter tiadæ firum foldu frea allmectig Nu scilun herga hefenricæs uard metudæs mehti and his modgithanc uerc uuldurfadur sue he uundra gihuæs eci dryctin or astelidæ. he ærist scop ældu barnum hefen to hrofæ halig sceppend tha middingard moncynnæs uard eci dryctin æfter tiadæ firum foldu frea allmehtig