from Postcards: A Metaphysical Journey

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,