Primus St. John

Dear Folks, (Smile) Enclosed, is the Ordinary River. It is called “That Devil,” In whose name the locals are baptized. Finally that river twists Like a hurt thing— They say it’s nothing. It has become a new road In a naked place. Then, I am nothing And it is that dream I dreamed I dreamed. Sincerely, ~ Hello, I have just passed “Doubt,” It is near “Milk Teeth,” And “Nothing,” and “Falling Out.” There are flowers and evidence Of ambiguous winds. “Doubt” is like a man Walking in his sleep, seriously. Offhand, it reminds me Of a Jamesian novel With the motives, the motives, the motives. Have Mercy, ~ Say, To get to Innocence, You take the narrow trail From Deep. You squeeze into the mountain’s waves. If you meet savage rock, It is the wrong way. Turn left. . . There, then, in our hearts’ Honeymoon, lay I. Queequeg ~ J.P., Today is Friday. We are still on the hill Called Spirit of the Wind But we are down real low Like new flame Just to be close. Dad ~ Baby G., Sunday, And what you are probably babbling I seem to see, (I.e.) at 60 mph This is the alfalfa field Of my heart. There is no museum here, And in a convertible, Where birds can sing, Anything is possible. Dad ~ Milton, There is a mountain called Can She is blind with snow But all seers are blind What we need In the morning when we always see her And are always reborn Is a magnificent horn And the strangely uneven voice Of her life Thanks, ~ Bill, I checked this out. . . You know that ridge up there Is north, because you know For no reason (except this). A great wind blows. Behind it, the stars come out Virtually human. And here you are, apparently Crude, like the sound Of a breaking string That seems to come from the sky. So Long,

1    Dear Milton, Rain. But when you are here, alone, what does it mean. It means psalm — that song sung to the harp. Like trees, we too hold on to the earth — pull and twang for another tongue.It(whatever it is, and who knows that) is a sacred song.It is strange for we are the ones who glorify mystery with our arms. We call it testament because it pries at our souls with many branches, and so you say with a huge eye, we must practice our art like the third stomach of a cud-chewing animal: “Myrtle, Woodbine, Appletrees, Trillium, here they are, the strength of your arm stalls at the open gate of the stars. Feel everything, trust everything!”

1    There are few probabilities through Which dreamers do not pass. . . The first dream Is the bright red dream Of our mother’s heart. It is her sacrifice Of something eternal In herself, for us. The Arabs say Blood has flowed Let us begin again. The heart is like a cup, or a coffer, or a cave. It holds the image of the sun within us. It is a center of illumination and happiness and wisdom. To dream of the heart is always to dream of the importance of love. . . The second dream is the inauguration Of the soul. In this dream we are Confronted by a host of birds. . . Some were guileless Like the doves,

1    I look at my hands In a dark hour. They are my wife, Another life, Fawnal, Explicitly made. I compare responsibility To journey: They are pitch-black Whirling in the outside world Left behind like a native— Possessed. 2    We are older: Toil is our long way Back home. It works. Causes the space to beat Like a heart. It is a part of the poem That appears And appears on its own. It goes on On its own, Mystical as evil But, it is called freedom. 3    I’m sorry: I was telling you about my hands. How well we are married. It follows, I recognize all truth As some part of ten. Spirit is my thumb, Passionately. Without thumb I would be nothing. I have met some who believe in reason. They have had too much wine, Confess cause and effect— It has been painful. 4    I told you it is unreasonable: I guess I should say here, I am your carpenter. Ethnically, dark wood Is my life. I could show you my story better, Sanding, Then where I speak You would hear Africa Africa

1    Kinship: Is embarrassing the wind, Like dead black boys, Falling down from the trees, Then downstream– On their knees, Blood like, Like a rich nation. 2    Metaphor: Becomes humiliating, And clean, Ticking like a ripe machine. Do not Bend, Fold, Or mutilate me– This is your future speaking. 3    The air smells so metaphysical We have accused it– Of smog, And lost manhood, Then all ritual. 4    Whoever wrote: A view is a mountain speaking But left the introduction For the snow, And accused silence Of its soul. 5    The whole nation: Is a stanza of blackness, A huge white whale, Faith in space (Like the newspapers), And the quiet insistence We have peace, And it’s your world, brother.

Every story has its lean meat and its solid church so he started to rape her for years. However, owls close their eyes in the daytime because they’re awake all night, and she waited for him at the handle of his hunting knife the bells ringing afterward with the kind of lust she’s always known. After that her flights were silent and her voice, of rats and mice. I don’t understand sorcery or omens even eyes as penetrating as hers, but under her feathers and all along the tips of her flight where she’s let me touch her, I’ve kissed her fright.