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Fear. Three bears are not fear, mother and cubs come berrying in our neighborhood like any other family. I want to see them, or any distraction. Flashlight poking across the brook into briary darkness, but they have gone, noisily. I go to bed. Fear. Unwritten books already titled. Some idiot will shoot the bears soon, it always happens, they’ll be strung up by the paws in someone’s frontyard maple to be admired and measured, and I'll be paid for work yet to be done— with a broken imagination. At last I dream. Our plum tree, little, black, twisted, gaunt in the orchard: how for a moment last spring it flowered serenely, translucently before yielding its usual summer crop of withered leaves. I waken, late, go to the window, look down to the orchard. Is middle age what makes even dreams factual? The plum is serene and bright in new moonlight, dressed in silver leaves, and nearby, in the waste of rough grass strewn in moonlight like diamond dust, what is it?—a dark shape moves, and then another. Are they ... I can’t be sure. The dark house nuzzles my knee mutely, pleading for meaty dollars. Fear. Wouldn’t it be great to write nothing at all except poems about bears?

After Robert Hayden’s “Bone-Flower Elegy” In the dream I enter him I      the eater of numbers the black-lipped barcode of cost have come for him because he owes me. He owes me the broken machine the bone structure gone limp over leg of time. I      irreverent as safe sex breathlessly whispering this is not a threat but a promise

first garden Beastgarden. second garden Bees go mad on late summer evenings, should People stray from their jobs towards water Beastgarden. third garden Who makes the rented red boat's Oars turn Who is the younger one always Turning up Who professes to be better because He is just looking Who says he is worse off as He cannot look Beastgarden. fourth garden The unicycle girl, thin Like one with a sexual problem, Goes through The Schlosspark. This follows: Father rolling his eyes Beastgarden. fifth garden The man from Manchester Has my breast in his hand These are funny They don't do anything do they Being burnt by a fire I say Beastgarden. sixth garden Similarly, if only You grasped some Titanic misery or a Love like an old man's Beastgarden. seventh garden Where were we A ballroom competition goes on A yellow satin bikini A fuchsia floor-length are Dancing; an audience is Drinking, clapping 1 2 3 1 2 3 Beastgarden.

To the Priest, on Observing how most Men mistake their own Talents When beasts could speak (the learned say, They still can do so ev'ry day), It seems, they had religion then, As much as now we find in men. It happen'd, when a plague broke out (Which therefore made them more devout), The king of brutes (to make it plain, Of quadrupeds I only mean) By proclamation gave command, That ev'ry subject in the land Should to the priest confess their sins; And thus the pious wolf begins: "Good father, I must own with shame, That often I have been to blame: I must confess, on Friday last, Wretch that I was! I broke my fast: But I defy the basest tongue To prove I did my neighbour wrong; Or ever went to seek my food By rapine, theft, or thirst of blood." The ass, approaching next, confess'd That in his heart he lov'd a jest: A wag he was, he needs must own, And could not let a dunce alone: Sometimes his friend he would not spare, And might perhaps be too severe: But yet, the worst that could be said, He was a wit both born and bred; And, if it be a sin or shame, Nature alone must bear the blame: One fault he hath, is sorry for't, His ears are half a foot too short; Which could he to the standard bring, He'd show his face before the King: Then for his voice, there's none disputes That he's the nightingale of brutes. The swine with contrite heart allow'd, His shape and beauty made him proud: In diet was perhaps too nice, But gluttony was ne'er his vice: In ev'ry turn of life content, And meekly took what fortune sent: Inquire through all the parish round, A better neighbour ne'er was found: His vigilance might some displease; 'Tis true he hated sloth like peas. The mimic ape began his chatter, How evil tongues his life bespatter: Much of the cens'ring world complain'd, Who said, his gravity was feign'd: Indeed, the strictness of his morals Engag'd him in a hundred quarrels: He saw, and he was griev'd to see't, His zeal was sometimes indiscreet: He found his virtues too severe For our corrupted times to bear: Yet, such a lewd licentious age Might well excuse a Stoic's rage. The goat advanc'd with decent pace; And first excus'd his youthful face; Forgiveness begg'd that he appear'd ('Twas nature's fault) without a beard. 'Tis true, he was not much inclin'd To fondness for the female kind; Not, as his enemies object, From chance, or natural defect; Not by his frigid constitution, But through a pious resolution; For he had made a holy vow Of chastity as monks do now; Which he resolv'd to keep for ever hence, As strictly too, as doth his Reverence. Apply the tale, and you shall find, How just it suits with human kind. Some faults we own: but, can you guess? Why?—virtues carried to excess, Wherewith our vanity endows us, Though neither foe nor friend allows us. The lawyer swears, you may rely on't, He never squeez'd a needy client; And this he makes his constant rule, For which his brethren call him fool: His conscience always was so nice, He freely gave the poor advice; By which he lost, he may affirm, A hundred fees last Easter term. While others of the learned robe Would break the patience of a Job; No pleader at the bar could match His diligence and quick dispatch; Ne'er kept a cause, he well may boast, Above a term or two at most. The cringing knave, who seeks a place Without success, thus tells his case: Why should he longer mince the matter? He fail'd because he could not flatter; He had not learn'd to turn his coat, Nor for a party give his vote: His crime he quickly understood; Too zealous for the nation's good: He found the ministers resent it, Yet could not for his heart repent it. The chaplain vows he cannot fawn, Though it would raise him to the lawn: He pass'd his hours among his books; You find it in his meagre looks: He might, if he were worldly wise, Preferment get and spare his eyes: But own'd he had a stubborn spirit, That made him trust alone in merit: Would rise by merit to promotion; Alas! a mere chimeric notion. The doctor, if you will believe him, Confess'd a sin; and God forgive him! Call'd up at midnight, ran to save A blind old beggar from the grave: But see how Satan spreads his snares; He quite forgot to say his prayers. He cannot help it for his heart Sometimes to act the parson's part: Quotes from the Bible many a sentence, That moves his patients to repentance: And, when his med'cines do no good, Supports their minds with heav'nly food, At which, however well intended, He hears the clergy are offended; And grown so bold behind his back, To call him hypocrite and quack. In his own church he keeps a seat; Says grace before and after meat; And calls, without affecting airs, His household twice a day to prayers. He shuns apothecaries' shops; And hates to cram the sick with slops: He scorns to make his art a trade; Nor bribes my lady's fav'rite maid. Old nurse-keepers would never hire To recommend him to the squire; Which others, whom he will not name, Have often practis'd to their shame. The statesman tells you with a sneer, His fault is to be too sincere; And, having no sinister ends, Is apt to disoblige his friends. The nation's good, his master's glory, Without regard to Whig or Tory, Were all the schemes he had in view; Yet he was seconded by few: Though some had spread a hundred lies, 'Twas he defeated the Excise. 'Twas known, though he had borne aspersion, That standing troops were his aversion: His practice was, in ev'ry station, To serve the King, and please the nation. Though hard to find in ev'ry case The fittest man to fill a place: His promises he ne'er forgot, But took memorials on the spot: His enemies, for want of charity, Said he affected popularity: 'Tis true, the people understood, That all he did was for their good; Their kind affections he has tried; No love is lost on either side. He came to Court with fortune clear, Which now he runs out ev'ry year: Must, at the rate that he goes on, Inevitably be undone: Oh! if his Majesty would please To give him but a writ of ease, Would grant him licence to retire, As it hath long been his desire, By fair accounts it would be found, He's poorer by ten thousand pound. He owns, and hopes it is no sin, He ne'er was partial to his kin; He thought it base for men in stations To crowd the Court with their relations; His country was his dearest mother, And ev'ry virtuous man his brother; Through modesty or awkward shame (For which he owns himself to blame), He found the wisest man he could, Without respect to friends or blood; Nor ever acts on private views, When he hath liberty to choose. The sharper swore he hated play, Except to pass an hour away: And well he might; for, to his cost, By want of skill he always lost; He heard there was a club of cheats, Who had contriv'd a thousand feats; Could change the stock, or cog a die, And thus deceive the sharpest eye: Nor wonder how his fortune sunk, His brothers fleece him when he's drunk. I own the moral not exact; Besides, the tale is false in fact; And so absurd, that could I raise up From fields Elysian fabling Aesop; I would accuse him to his face For libelling the four-foot race. Creatures of ev'ry kind but ours Well comprehend their natural pow'rs; While we, whom reason ought to sway, Mistake our talents ev'ry day. The ass was never known so stupid To act the part of Tray or Cupid; Nor leaps upon his master's lap, There to be strok'd, and fed with pap, As Aesop would the world persuade; He better understands his trade: Nor comes, whene'er his lady whistles; But carries loads, and feeds on thistles. Our author's meaning, I presume, is A creature bipes et implumis; Wherein the moralist design'd A compliment on human kind: For here he owns, that now and then Beasts may degenerate into men.

Beat! beat! drums!—blow! bugles! blow! Through the windows—through doors—burst like a ruthless force, Into the solemn church, and scatter the congregation, Into the school where the scholar is studying, Leave not the bridegroom quiet—no happiness must he have now with his bride, Nor the peaceful farmer any peace, ploughing his field or gathering his grain, So fierce you whirr and pound you drums—so shrill you bugles blow. Beat! beat! drums!—blow! bugles! blow! Over the traffic of cities—over the rumble of wheels in the streets; Are beds prepared for sleepers at night in the houses? no sleepers must sleep in those beds, No bargainers’ bargains by day—no brokers or speculators—would they continue? Would the talkers be talking? would the singer attempt to sing? Would the lawyer rise in the court to state his case before the judge? Then rattle quicker, heavier drums—you bugles wilder blow. Beat! beat! drums!—blow! bugles! blow! Make no parley—stop for no expostulation, Mind not the timid—mind not the weeper or prayer, Mind not the old man beseeching the young man, Let not the child’s voice be heard, nor the mother’s entreaties, Make even the trestles to shake the dead where they lie awaiting the hearses, So strong you thump O terrible drums—so loud you bugles blow.

i Walking across the PCH, we looked Up and saw, big as the butt of a pen, Jupiter, fat with light and unheighted. I looked back at the waiting traffic stalled At the seaside road’s salt-rimmed traffic lights As they swayed to the Pacific’s not-quite- Anapestic song of sea and air — The raw and sudden crick of crickets — The cars, suddenly silent as cows — And blue Malibu blackening like a bee. ii A poem is a view of the Pacific And the Pacific, and the Pacific Taking in its view of the Pacific, And the Pacific as the Pacific (Just like that: as though there’s no Pacific) Ends. A poem is the palm of the ocean, Closing. It or she or he is merely, Which means it or she or he is a mar. But a mar made up of  temperament and Tempo — the red weather in the heart. iii I’m about to get this all wrong, I know: Santa Monica behind me, the ocean To my left, Jupiter high above me, And Malibu somewhere in my mind, flecked With mist and dusk and Dylan and strange grays In the sunsets that stripe the seaside hills Like the tricolor of a country made Of  beauty, the dream of beauty, and smog. Sadly, in my mind it’s always snowing; Which is beautiful but austere, unlike here. iv Along the thin pedestrian passage Beside the PCH, just off Sunset, Mel Gibson chants of beginnings and ends And lies and facts — Jews and Blacks being Both the lies and facts. His face is ruddy Like bruschetta. He storms at the police Because fuck them. He’s wearing his T-shirt Like a toga. He schools them his toga Wisdom from toga times. He offers them His toga. They offer him a ride — . v Arun’s car carried us like metaphor In a poem or painting; moving meaning; Moving the current; being the current; The terse tug of tides: still the great glamour; Still, even as we speed on the 110, The music in my head, the Jupiter Of the mind’s unstemmed Pacific Ocean As it unfurls in the vapor trail of Malibu, fragrant in far-off fluorescents, Like a nocturnal flower calling you. vi Then, Downtown LA and LA Live surged Up, like marginalia on a newly Turned page, spangled with bland suggestions, Fiery accusations of its own Brilliance that descend into indifference. We speed nearer and it grows. We veer and It grows. We park and it grows. Close your eyes. Now look. And it has grown. Yo la quiero. But I should know better, if just because You can smell the injustice in the air. vii The Pacific encircles me. Slowly. As though it doesn’t trust me. Or, better Said, I only understand it this way: By feeling like a stranger at its blue Door. The poet with the sea stuck in his Enjambments can’t call out to some Cathay As though some Cathay exists and be glad. No, the differences we have should be felt And made, through that feeling, an eclipsed lack; A power to take in what you can’t take back. viii The old hocus of this ocean’s focus On pulling its waves over the soft surf Like a skin pulled down tight over the top Of a drum was, to her, a new hocus. We stared out with her, out toward Hokusai’s Tiny boats and rising lace-fringed sea swells No chunk of haiku could think to charter. It was like the eighth day of creation In the eighth line of a poem — she sang, She didn’t sing, the sea sang, then stopped.

October – November 1975 Autobus on Paseo de la Reforma with destination signs: bellas artes insurgentes .Exactamente. Just what’s needed: Insurgent Arts.Poesía Insurgente. This is not it ... 1 Bus to Veracruz via Puebla + Xalapa ... Adobe house by highway, with no roof and one wall, covered with words: la luz del mundo . 2 Passing through Puebla late Sunday afternoon. A band concert in a plaza next to a Ferris wheel — I have passed through many places like this, I have seen the toy trains in many amusement parks. When you’ve seen them all you’ve seen One. 3 Halfway to Xalapa a great white volcano snow peak looms up above the hot altiplano— White god haunting Indian dreams. 4 A boy and three burros run across a stubble field, away from the white mountain. He holds a stick. There is no other way. 5 Deep yellow flowers in the dusk by the road, beds of them stretching away into darkness. A moon the same color comes up. 6 As the bus turns + turns down the winding hill, moon swings wildly from side to side. It has had too many pathetic phallusies written about it to stand still for one more. 7 In Xalapa I am a head taller than anyone else in town — A foot of flesh and two languages separate us. 8 At a stand in the park at the center of Xalapa I eat white corn on the cob with a stick in the end, sprinkled with salt, butter, grated cheese + hot sauce. The dark stone Indian who hands it to me has been standing there three thousand years. 9 I’m taking this trip from Mexico City to the Gulf of Mexico and back without any bag or person — only what I can carry in my pockets. The need for baggage is a form of insecurity. 10 Two hours in this town and I feel I might live forever (foreign places affect me that way). The tall church tower tolls its antique sign: pray . 11 In early morning in the great garden of Xalapa, with its terraces and immense jacaranda trees, pines + palms, there are black birds with cries like bells, and others with hollow wooden voices like gourds knocked together. The great white volcano shimmers far off, unreached by the rising sun. 12 Brown men in white palmetto cowboy hats stand about the fountains in groups of three or four, their voices lost to the hollow-sounding birds. Along a sunlit white stone balustrade, student lovers are studying each other,novios awaiting the day. The sun beats down hot and melts not the mountain. 13 On the bus again to Veracruz, dropping down fast to flat coast. A tropical feeling — suddenly coffee plantation + palms — everything small except the landscape, horses the size of burros, small black avocados, small strong men with machetes — each still saying to himself Me llamo yo.

By the time I recalled that it is also terrifying, we had gone too far into the charmed woods to return. It was then the beautiful animal appeared in our path: ribs jutting, moon-fed eyes moving from me to you and back. If we show none of the fear, it may tire of waiting for the triggering flight, it may ask only to lie between us and sleep, fur warm on our skin, breath sweet on our necks as it dreams of slaughter, as we dream alternately of feeding and taming it and of being the first to run. The woods close tight around us, lying nested here like spoons in a drawer of knives, to see who wakes first, and from which dream.

Beautiful dreamer, wake unto me, Starlight and dewdrops are waiting for thee; Sounds of the rude world heard in the day, Lull'd by the moonlight have all pass'd a way! Beautiful dreamer, queen of my song, List while I woo thee with soft melody; Gone are the cares of life's busy throng,— Beautiful dreamer, awake unto me! Beautiful dreamer awake unto me! Beautiful dreamer, out on the sea Mermaids are chaunting the wild lorelie; Over the streamlet vapors are borne, Waiting to fade at the bright coming morn. Beautiful dreamer, beam on my heart, E'en as the morn on the streamlet and sea; Then will all clouds of sorrow depart,— Beautiful dreamer, awake unto me! Beautiful dreamer, awake unto me!

(for Ed and Jenny) greetings as the door opened ticking please listen to this food alone for all the f.b.i. will continue maybe you dozed off i hung by that phone all night suppose he talks * vida later aria * once upon a time not looking for any thing * you’re on your own it’s off it’s on * perhaps it means ragged like that golda my-yeer pre-meer * and pour the old box down a drain * too  much news said the news * r e  o l e * it’s us or rust listener * deep personal regret looking up monday * we can save your head or your body we can shave * even his admission is a subtle lie * in suspense what is cut into the smallest of the * grinding to fill a prescription * drum to the wobble and a roll on the sea come to mind an article of light distance through distance unfinished * piano * willing to believe * national anthem hearer * perfect rhyme to some all cars kept in doors * sophisticated newsmen show how it could have been * retreat from the swiss legation * numbers for an event * corruption why not? * infinite detail is no more real * thought against power * answer it * hooked to just another piece of tape hooked to just one more little piece of tape * through words in to no record * writer righter riter * am: i on replay? * all you do is expand the system * a polaroid of la with the wrong voice print * astronaut amazed at what was expected