Early Poems

These first few poems come from the late 50s to early 60s.

They are followed by the "Relationship Poems" in which I courted Sabine in the early 1980s



Decalogue




i

we live in a nation of a great upcoming dynasty

approaching those of ancient history

a new modern day dynasty

of jack and bob and all their heirs

a kennedy klan

money and power

vote

or be a bigot

daddy could feed us all

remove taxes

carry the national debt

many johnson yearlings to supplement

the situation is fantastic

tammany hall to kennedy hall

america

you want security and a personal daddy?

if he has a diamond stickpin

who cares?

he's king daddy

every generation has a buddha

is that yours?



ii

recession recession depression

when do i work?

when do i feed my children?

cotton coal and iron ore

how do i feed my children?

i see myself in new york

i'm turning over a cadillac

filled with rich bastards

i pour gasoline on them

they burn

kindled by washington greenbacks

recession

how do i feed my children?

every generation has a buddha

where's mine?



iii

hundreds of charcoal sticks

sprout out of the land

they were witnesses

they watched a triune parachute

gospel the new bomb to destiny

their destiny

they were witnesses

a head turns to look

brittles off and dusts to the ground

a mouth opens to speak

puffs away on a breeze

they do not look

they do no speak

they witness

every generation has a buddha

where's theirs?



iv

atlas jupiter and polaris

we seek to touch and even fondle

outer worlds

race

beat the soviets

our long neck stretches above clouds

we don't notice our shoes tied together

go home

go home you ruskies yankees chinamen

i'm an isolationist

i don't want to run away out of this world

america come back

every generation has a buddha

where's yours?



v

i shall wear a beard

take it off when you grow one

i'll wear tennis shoes

when you wear suedes

i'll wear a silly hat

i don't want to be all of you

incorporated

i am me

please leave me alone

you've formed and concepted me

through kindergarten grade and high school

now leave me alone

let me find out

quiet

do not tell me

i shan't fall asleep

i am awake

every generation has a buddha

me

or you?



vi

it scares me

we like to be ruled

will a goose fuehrer arise out of our masses

a screaming yelling leader?

Our children

fight and rebel

we give nothing

work

you get a stone

and frustrated children

sex reigns unnaturally supreme

we run around and bump our heads

get up

and our nose bleeds

every generation has a buddha

but now

bring me a compress



vii

america

bandy legged fat men

are packing the population

never exercise

eat eat

couldn't run a block from the bomb

a coronary

before the corner

maybe it's better

bomb scares will eliminate us

by constant strokes

cholesterol

be thankful

we will be spared

the blisterbomb

every generation has a buddha

look!



viii

a religious revival in america

hallelujah

go to church this sunday

yes

fight to see god

your god

i'm hoarse

i'm tired of screaming

i'm a crackly voiced scrag beard prophet

my eyes are sore red

people laugh at me

dogs bite my naked ankles

i don't take a bath

when i hitchhike

bishop's chauffeurs don't stop

neither do priests

but i pray every day

i should like to taste locusts

every generation has a buddha

with bloody ankles?



ix

where oh where are we going?

what are we doing?

as a nation city state people

i don't know

little hamsters run in an exerciser

an ox plods around a millstone

freedom

equality

peace

fancy words

or a direction?

every generation has a buddha

come...



x

he comes

bare sore feet on a hot sidewalk

squinting eyes meet morning sun

green buds sprout from his walking stick

only dogs stay close

nipping his robe hem

avoiding his ankles

barking

fingers and laughter surround him

suddenly his body is hurled

as a boyscout rally truck hits him

stepping off a curb

his staff flies into the air

sticks in a residential boulevard

and blooms

every generation has a buddha...






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i am rosa parks

i am kitty genovese

i am virginia wolf

i am ellen james



is my lust to kill them

as great as

theirs was that night?

Is this my way

of dealing with

the beast within?

or can

this be

the feminine part of me

my androgyny

screaming

hoarse and gasping sentences

until

no word is understandable but one

justice!





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spring comes

like little skipping girls

down slushy mud streets

wearing starched green dresses

with little white bows

freshness in their laughter

brightness in their talk

like little insects

instant-broken out of weathered

cocoon shells

they talk and smile

and even giggle

like little skipping girls

down slushy mud streets



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listen buddyboy

the day has come when you had better forget having

a virgin for a wife and a life expectancy of 65 and a

good job with a b.a. degree

listen buddyboy

you'd better start looking for a way in which to keep

number one and his tail and other parts

from getting burnt by people who don't care

who or what or how many

and one other thing buddyboy

before you pick up that gun and talk about liberty

free enterprise and the monroe doctrine and winning

a two foot cross for your fanaticism stop and

think of just who gets it in the end

(and buddyboy you can take that both ways)





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little michiko went clipclopping through pine woods in search of her lover little michiko knew this was last walk in forest and knew lover would never be hers on earth had decided with lover to clip off little hair and nails and mix together to send to unrelenting parents dear michiko knew she and lover would soon end lives together and this hastened her clipclopping on pine needles as little shakes and chills and a most thrilling sensation surrounded her as she and love on a very high cliff took off clothes as wind brushed naked bodies pulled together to the earth soul and engrossed with its counterpart the climatic ending rolled them off into space into each other's arms forever





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christ came

today

now

in the atom world

of

bomb

negro

and u.n.

someone heard

spread the word

people waited in well-lit churches

in great cathedrals

no ear may hear his coming...

look

there's uncle harry

did you hear...?

waiting

but in this world of sin...

night passes

like 2000 paining years

no one

saw christ

but he is here

will be here

will continue to come

word became flesh

again

again

and dwells among us...

still

still

he is in the tenements

helping a mex

with a sick wife

in a smelly flat

a reek of urine

and filth

he has s thin skinny

darkeyed kid in his arms

pale child

shivering in the cold

christ speaks spanish

has black hair

tan skin

now

he picks up

an old man

drunk

in the gutter

he was lying

in his vomit

now

christ looks

at a prostitute

no word is spoken

eternity

in an eyeball

now

he is with

the pusher

pimp

despised

hated

rejected

now

his skin is yellow

his eyes slant

now

his skin is black

he is called nigger

he pushes a plow

goes to bed hungry

he was gassed in '39

starved in '52

now

he is crucified

in a race r\riot

where?

wait and see

look

only the first time

was it on a tree





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i'm going mad and i love it

a cigarette ad doctor chases me around

trying to perform a lobotomy to ease my psychosis

i laugh at him as i run picking up a pencil and paper

from blind buddhas on deserted street corners that

know all that are awake and know the sane physician

with his sharpened intellect cutter

will never catch me

me the mad criticizing howling poet

i stand nude in the auditorium

people scream and turn away

ashamed of my bare genitals

i wonder

it is nothing

but i quickly leave as dr anti-tars with his scalpel

thrust forward pressingly appears

i sit buddha in the middle of the street

contemplating woods and trees and blue waters

horns honk they are birds

people shout they are toads

white coat yells mad

but his incisor is starting to rust

who is mad?

madness is accentuating

you overage normal should be pitied studied and helped

average through life feeling nothing

except average feeling

artists are mad sculptors are mad

composers are mad poets are mad

commit us and you lock yourself

we are free

free intellect

mind matters not chains not leather straps not

shocks not drugs not 25 dollars an hour talking to

an average

come you knife wielding fiend

i'll bury you with my poems

i can write and run

i'll choke you with paper before you can sever my senses

already you hold only a handle





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images of you

a snowflake slowly melting on you inner thigh

sleeping

the aroma of earth caresses

the taste of your honeycombs

leaves and grass and perspiration

rhythmic relaxing waves

sensual drifting rain and crickets

fantasies possibilities realities







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i saw you walking yesterday

your hands were behind you

tucked into your back pockets

framed by your hips

the lines of you

your outer shell

so soft

fragile

and sensual

containing

your innerwarmness

i wanted to walk up behind you

put my arm around your bare waist

i saw you walking yesterday

i was with you





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last night

you put your clothes on

i could barely see you

framed like a cometolife

warm statue

your skin

leathergrainy

in the moonlight

you put on your trousers

slowly

deliberately

i watched as you buckled together

your head was low

your hair in your eyes

you brushed it back

and in slowmotion

buttoned your blouse

a contrast

in light and darkness

flesh and image

mist and substance

a mystical mirage

tell me why ephemeral lady

i cannot

move

paralyzed

by your lovesting

my moist body

pleasantly cooled

by your surreal movements

unable to speak

you float

suspended above me

so close

i can taste your warmth

and your nearness





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i just talked to you

you were a hundred miles away

i couldn't touch you

with my eyes

smell your fragrance nor

taste the sweetness

of your skin

i could only talk to you

imagining

you deep dancing eyes

how you stand

unaware

and unabashed

the hug of your clothing

your long fingers

and perhaps

as we talked

your hair blew across your face

a summer's breeze

from an open window

and a few strands

kissed

your mouth






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i'd rather be a poet

than what i am today

i'd rather be

a feeling expressing man

that what i am today

i'd rather be a poet

and tell you who i am

and how i feel

and what you mean to me

you'll love me as a poet

a carefree touching man






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if galembo took our picture

what would she see?

painted macaroni

around

our zany life?

or

a sequined shell a cupid's heart

surrounding waltzing fools?

if galembo took our picture

she would see us

crazy hopelessly in love

laughing sharing

i wonder if she'd take it when

we skipped rocks on mighty michigan

or

when the world's championship tusslematch

ended with a draw

and (incidentally) a delicious multicolored

rhinestone kiss?

yes galembo took our picture

i see it now





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last time

i cried when i made love

with you

i couldn't help it

because you helped me

trust

i couldn't help

being like a child again

because

the last time

you really touched me

and brought me forward

lightyears

and put aside my

anger pain and

self protection

and i trusted you

a woman

the first time in over

twenty years

My Mother

my mother
elsa
her mother called her
grace
from the family osteros
it said
a norwegian castaway
even forgot to baptize her
she was available for 50 dollars
cash
it was 1915
but it wasn’t mississippi or georgia
but minnesota
the “minnesota state school” they called it
and the man
whom i thought was my grandfather
bought a two year old child
indentured they said she was
he signed the paper
he would
keep her till she was 18
provide for her
treat her “properly and kindly”
give her “two good suits of clothes”
train her up in occupation that was
“something useful”
he could cancel at any time
just prorate the 50 dollars
send her back at his expense
my mother never knew until her
wedding day
she was not that man’s daughter
and so now
decades have passed
and i have come to
understand
when the man died
she was just another
piece of property
and my ‘mor-mor?’
the man’s wife
i remember her
from that family
i thought was mine
those fuzzy faded pictures
a large kindly looking woman
smiling
holding me
a slave-owners wife?
did she really love us?
it’s been over 70 years now
and i still don’t know.

The Beginning

when we were
young
we ran along
sandy trails
one early morning
in florida
winding
through
head-tall
beach grass
which brushed
our face
as we ran
hearing the pulsating
surf
the waves
rolling and broiling
rolling and broiling
their crashing
repetitive
sound
awakened a
familiar
hunger
in both of
us
as we fell into
the deep sea grass
our sand-
encrusted bodies
now in syncopated
rhythm
to the
surf
only
yards
away.



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each year
we’d see them
two swans
on the pond south of us
we look for their faithful
arrival each year
a couple
each year
they mate and hatch a young or two
the chicks never seem to make it
they are gone
much too soon
and yet
each year we see them
faithfully arrive
but this year
only one has settled on the pond
he swims and
nests across from where
they made their home
not approaching that sacred place
will he be back next year?
to visit these memories of their youth?
to see their nest again
now but a remnant
in the changing landscape
of these breathtaking
hills and valleys?




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the second
of four friends
have died
four great maple trees
i’ve known them
for 25 years
residents in
our backyard
he first
blown over by
a strong southern wind
cut up
and burned
for a winter in our
farm stove
the second
now stands
stark
a spidery outline
against the blue
spring sky
barren
while its neighbors
stand by
watching
sprouting new green
avoiding
the saw
the splitter
and
the fire which comes.



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my college student
clarion
really
shut down
the university
that fall day
when
fuck the war!
was boldly
front-page
proclaimed in
4 inch
type
alumni withheld
their
donations
legislators
cut back funds
proposed
new laws
fuck the war!
we said
again
and you
warn
and threaten
and are shocked
by this
familiar
common anglo-
saxon word
which today
is in the
vocabulary
of most 5th
graders
still
we go to
war
no longer
shocked or
moved to act
by either
fuck
or
war
no, we
simply
sit and
smile
upon hearing
these two
words
in one
sentence
ah the pretentiousness
of
youth
the rebels
we
once
sadly
were.





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at first
Sabine’s cancer sadness
was a
monkey
on my back
look (i would think
they’d say)
he’s so strong
but
there’s a
monkey
on his back
and he
can’t
shake it
embarrassed
i would gulp my
grief
swallow my
tears
now
two years have
passed
the monkey
still is
there
(a frequent
passenger) he’s
still
quite visible
a passenger
with whom
I now
find comfort
proud to carry
him
look
(they now say
no longer noticing
the monkey)
how much
he
loves
her.




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her sweet voice
my youngest daughter
boarding a plane
to afghanistan
my daughter
part of
this empire’s
long
strong
and reaching arm
but something’s
wrong
daughters and
wives to war?
what have
we become?




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birds sing
even when it rains
I hear them
while we nap in our
screen house
the soft rain
sprinkling the roof
the chirping
never ceases
perhaps a sign
a metaphor
on encouragement
unabashed
joyfulness or
live and let
live
you lie
next to me
your cancer
temporarily
restrained
i think of it
and my foot
automatically
goes to and
presses its
neck
its hissing
sound
drowned out
by birds
who simply
are enjoying
the day
unaware
of my
vengefulness.