Of What is Real

I like to lie with you wordless on black cloud rooft beach in late june 5 o’clock tempest on clump weed bed with sand fitting your contours like tailor made and I like to wash my summer brown face in north cold hudson rapids with octagon soap knees niched in steamy rocks where last night’s frog stared at our buddhist sleep but most of all I like to see the morning happen . . . I like to go down vertical mountains where lanny goshkitch meditated crashing poplars sap sticky arms flailing as thermosed green tea anoints sneakers and blood soakt brow I taste and love myself a split second and I like to feel my own full scrotum as I horizon the whole crisp linen earth in my beatitude waiting miguel-like in maskt fantasy for christ-like you— whoever you are but most of all I like to see the morning happen . . . I like to look at books howl haikus of the seasons of the mind that I might know the knowing and the simplest to think of all of us taking turns at catching each other in the rye and I like to taste cold absinthe on hot hung sunday mornings discussing orgies symposiums and sounds with hoary headed poets in upstairs jazz club in Japan but most of all I like to see the morning happen when k and ike still sleep and only the denver night riders hum contrasts to orient jazzy feather beasts in the dewy garden of real earth where I can sink my naked feet cool