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O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done, The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won, The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring; But O heart! heart! heart! O the bleeding drops of red, Where on the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead. O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells; Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills, For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding, For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning; Here Captain! dear father! This arm beneath your head! It is some dream that on the deck, You’ve fallen cold and dead. My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still, My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will, The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done, From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won; Exult O shores, and ring O bells! But I with mournful tread, Walk the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead.

O Carib Isle! The tarantula rattling at the lily’s foot Across the feet of the dead, laid in white sand Near the coral beach—nor zigzag fiddle crabs Side-stilting from the path (that shift, subvert And anagrammatize your name)—No, nothing here Below the palsy that one eucalyptus lifts In wrinkled shadows—mourns. And yet suppose I count these nacreous frames of tropic death, Brutal necklaces of shells around each grave Squared off so carefully. Then To the white sand I may speak a name, fertile Albeit in a stranger tongue. Tree names, flower names Deliberate, gainsay death’s brittle crypt. Meanwhile The wind that knots itself in one great death— Coils and withdraws. So syllables want breath. But where is the Captain of this doubloon isle Without a turnstile? Who but catchword crabs Patrols the dry groins of the underbrush? What man, or What Is Commissioner of mildew throughout the ambushed senses? His Carib mathematics web the eyes’ baked lenses! Under the poinciana, of a noon or afternoon Let fiery blossoms clot the light, render my ghost Sieved upward, white and black along the air Until it meets the blue’s comedian host. Let not the pilgrim see himself again For slow evisceration bound like those huge terrapin Each daybreak on the wharf, their brine-caked eyes; —Spiked, overturned; such thunder in their strain! And clenched beaks coughing for the surge again! Slagged of the hurricane—I, cast within its flow, Congeal by afternoons here, satin and vacant. You have given me the shell, Satan,—carbonic amulet Sere of the sun exploded in the sea.

One among the shifting mass of humanity intent on countless destinations, one hungry stomach and dry mouth among many, one brain dazed by the speed and altitude of flights unnatural to any animal, by herding, followed by waiting succeeded by rushing, waiting, herding— and more flight incomprehensible to any body contained in this seemingly unwieldy mass of metal lifting improbably over Chicago, where a misty orange aura hovers over the city’s brighter lights, as if its soul sought ascension it could only attempt, as if the aura might break free and follow us, wherever we might fly, wheresoever we may rest— one with the multitude of humans en route through mystery, to mystery.

O Donald! ye are just the man Who, when he’s got a wife, Begins to fratch— nae notice ta’en— They’re strangers a’ their life. The fan may drop— she takes it up, The husband keeps his chair; She hands the kettle— gives his cup— Without e’en— thank ye, dear.” Now, truly, these slights are but toys; But frae neglects like these, The wife may soon a slattern grow, And strive nae mair to please. For wooers ay do all they can To trifle wi’ the mind; They hold the blaze of beauty up, And keep the poor things blind. But wedlock tears away the veil, The goddess is nae mair; He thinks his wife a silly thing, She thinks her man a bear. Let then the lover be the friend— The loving friend for life; Think but thysel the happiest spouse, She’ll be the happiest wife.

We lived in province snow range and something that we uncover is like living in one Arizona room when we discover all we owe to darkness we never really know. Tomorrow is the national holiday for independence— no more left. For the first time we see the mountains with snow on them pulling away from the mountains and clouds.

In the beginning, in the wet Warm dark place, Straining to break out, clawing at strange cables Hearing her screams, laughing “Later we forgave ourselves, we didn’t know” Some secret jazz Shouted,wait, don’t go. Impatient, we came running, innocent Laughing blobs of blood & faith. To this mother, father world Where laughter seems out of place So we learned to cry, pleased They pronounce human. The secret Jazz blew a sigh Some familiar sound shouted wait Some are evil, some will hate. “Just Jazz, blowing its top again” So we rushed & laughed. As we pushed & grabbed While jazz blew in the night Suddenly they were too busy to hear a simple sound They were busy shoving mud in men’s mouths, Who were busy dying on the living ground Busy earning medals, for killing children on deserted street corners Occupying their fathers, raping their mothers, busy humans we Busy burning Japanese in atomicolorcinemascope With stereophonic screams, What one hundred per cent red blooded savage, would waste precious time Listening to jazz, with so many important things going on But even the fittest murderers must rest So they sat down in our blood soaked garments, and listened to jazz lost, steeped in all our death dreams They were shocked at the sound of life, long gone from our own They were indignant at the whistling, thinking, singing, beating, swinging, They wept for it, hugged, kissed it, loved it, joined it, we drank it, Smoked it, ate with it, slept with it They made our girls wear it for lovemaking Instead of silly lace gowns, Now in those terrible moments, when the dark memories come The secret moments to which we admit no one When guiltily we crawl back in time, reaching away from ourselves They hear a familiar sound, Jazz, scratching, digging, blueing, swinging jazz, And listen, And feel, & die.

Oh me! Oh life! of the questions of these recurring, Of the endless trains of the faithless, of cities fill’d with the foolish, Of myself forever reproaching myself, (for who more foolish than I, and who more faithless?) Of eyes that vainly crave the light, of the objects mean, of the struggle ever renew’d, Of the poor results of all, of the plodding and sordid crowds I see around me, Of the empty and useless years of the rest, with the rest me intertwined, The question, O me! so sad, recurring—What good amid these, O me, O life? Answer. That you are here—that life exists and identity, That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse.

O my Lord, the stars glitter and the eyes of men are closed. Kings have locked their doors and each lover is alone with his love. Here, I am alone with You.

O my Lord, if I worship you from fear of hell, burn me in hell. If I worship you from hope of Paradise, bar me from its gates. But if I worship you for yourself alone, grant me then the beauty of your Face.

ghosts of America roam land of fast food joints defined by movement herds of taxi cabs apartments too expensive to rent trained hands typing digital lives commotion rust-shriek & blur of subway trains O New York!       until my legs detect a din i walk (signs call me back) shoes snivel   eyes a pocket wrinkled youth palsied elephantine ankles   cross-eyed ditty a tic in the face is a chronicle of past grievings a cancerous cell love uncaved i write into this handbook of daytime things   tantrums   & baby paraphernalia claiming words which gather time answering life   i sit & stare into cracks     stars of fate i visit you across the sea of disease between us let us be stricken with poems