The river breaks to channels,
the channels to jets of racing water
broken by rock after black rock
to droplets flying in formation
past the edge of the earth
suspended
their plummeting
jostling, joining, streaming,
and breaking again to droplets in the wind
sideways, rising, swirling
meeting other droplets
rising from the pounding depth
and drops of falling rain formed from the rising mist.
There is no shadow in this valley of death
where all is mist
and nothing is remembered,
where everything that falls must rise
and fall again
as mist
on the camera lens.
(written January, 1998, at Victoria Falls, on the Zambezi River in Zimbabwe)
Who owns the Internet? -- No one.
Who controls the Internet? -- No one.
Where is the Internet? -- Everywhere.
Can you understand all and penetrate all with the click of a mouse?
To produce things and to make them well,
but not to sell them,
rather to give them away freely to all,
and by giving to become known and valued;
To act, but not to rely on one's own ability,
to build on the works and lessons of others,
and to let others do likewise --
this is called the Way of the Web.
The best is like water.
Water benefits all things and does not compete with them.
Water dissolves barriers.
Water reaches out and covers the earth.
This is called the Way of the Web.
[written 1995, intended as epigraph for the book The Way of the Web]
(On the occasion of the closing of Thee Coffee House, San Angelo, Texas, and the assemblage of its' nostalgic friends, 1970.)
Finnegan died,
as people do every once in a while,
so they held a funeral, an Irish funeral,
and relatives and old friends who hadn't seen him for months or years all gathered,
and it being winter, they held the picnic inside by candlelight;
and everybody had such a good time
that Grandpa promised to die next year so they could have another good time just like it,
and Grandma volunteered for the next year,
then all the aunts and uncles and cousins and third cousins and friends,
till they had two centuries all booked up,
and some pessimist in the crowd complained that he probably wouldn't live long enough for them to celebrate his funeral,
and one of the aunts complained that hers was scheduled after one of the cousins, and she wasn't going to play second fiddle to any mere cousin;
so Finnegan got up out of his coffin and told them to stop their squabbling --
they'd just open up a coffeehouse,
and every week they'd close it again,
and if people died, well, they could do it when they felt like it, in no particular order;
but everybody could get together anyway, once or twice a week,
and celebrate the funeral of the coffeehouse.
[published in Colorado North Review 32/1&2, p. 137]
Black Church spires
married in sunset silhouette --
Muscovite
power
of darkness --
(and no film in the camera).
[published in Colorado North Review 32/1&2, p. 138]
Beneath the pound of the rain
and the rush of the tides,
a gentle peace abides,
a weary ease.
A thrush chirps softly,
calmly through the thunder;
a worm crawls from under
the burden of earth.
It's a reverential hush:
liquid peace pours from heaven,
as God snores
in weary ease.
published in The Calhoun Literary Magazine, May, 1966; also published in Colorado North Review 32/1&2]
In May the bombs blossom.
The sweet aroma of gas fills the air.
The sing-song
Mekong
May song
me
doe
ray
me lie
me down to sleep,
and pray the Lord
(what else can one
two
three
four,
right face
the press of the crowd, shouting, mad
men giving orders
on the borders of insanity,
a neutral nation
at least officially,
but everyone knows
thyself
is an archaic term
in jail
waiting for trial,
by hook or by crook,
we'll pull this impotent giant
to a hard
line on
and on and on and
onward, Christian
humility
in defense of freedom is no
situation
comedy
featuring
Nixon, Mitchell, Agnew,
and a fourth horseman of the Apocalypse
to be announced,
so stay tuned
to looney tunes,
on most of our network stations,
brought to you by,
bye
happiness
is a warm gun,
in the age of hilarious,
who cannot wash away our sins
with a flood
of tear
gas,
for there was a limited supply
of war,
one day
in May
the bombs blossom.
[written May,1970 in New Haven, CT]
may
next spring
not be
silent
majority
of housewives use Dove
so gentle to the hands
of this callous
calley
assed
the president for mercy
and the president said, "Oh, pardon me,"
and kept his peace,
for peace is a precious thing
and shouldn't be given away lightly,
it's just common sense
input
in-
sens-
itivity
experiment
in mob psychology,
incense
to burn
baby
burn
mother
but side-burns shall not extend below the middle of the ear
and thine eyes shall see the gory
newsreel
and unreal
reeling
in this atomic age
of unfishinable
streams
of consciousness
expanding
war
or less
the same,
moralless,
insane
[written May 1971, Boston and Saratoga]
Six days shalt thou labor,
till the long thin week becomes a broad
and work is forgotten.
For all our Saturdays have lighted fools their way to drunken beds,
that our accidents may be fruitful and
fill the earth.
So we multiply allusions and illusions
and therein clothe our works and days,
for the joy of unbuttoning,
unzipping, and pulling off
to see
what we always knew was there.
[published in the Calhoun Literary Magazine, May 1966]
il errait dans la rue
tout seul, perdu
du brouillard dedans, dehors
rien que les mains dans les poches
rien que le coeur dans la tete
il ne cherchait rien partout
elle errait dans la rue
toute seule, perdue
du brouillard dedans, dehors
rien que les mains dans les poches
rien que le coeur dans la tete
elle ne cherchait rien partout
ils se sont rencontrés
ils flanent dans les rues ensemble
clarté dedans dehors
rien que le monde dans les poches
rien que l'autre dans la tete
ils cherchent demain ensemble
[written December, 1964 in Brussels and February, 1965 in Brentwood, Essex; published in The Calhoun Literary Magazine, May 1966]
I heard a gong
and again a gong,
resounding long --
the sound of a hammer on a loose-held
shield of bronze
They say the way he spoke
moved those who knew not
what he said.
He with the hammer,
me with the shield,
the short and bloodless battle left a long loud gong,
clear and strong.
The bronze still
quivers in my grasp.
(published in Yale Literary Magazine, Jan. 1967]
tree leaves
its accustomed home near the ground
stretches forth
leaves
to the sun
[written Jan. 28,1971 in Brookline and Cambridge, MA]
reddish stone
or only so at sunset
on snowy sand
with gull tracks
and other markings
indecipherable
with the rosetta
stone
or only so at sunset
[written Feb. 7, 1971 in Allston, MA]
she looked so sweet
the way she crossed her feet
on the soft seat in the corner.
the flair of the curl in her hair,
of the pair of curls of the pair of girls
on the soft seat in the corner
was oh so right for such a night
so hard to resist, to desist
when they begged to be kissed,
with the flair of their hair
and the cross of their feet
on the soft seat in the corner
[written July, 1965 in the Irish Sea between Fishguard and Cork]
black track
blue sky
the gun raised high
it's all a question of...
to soar with the shot
to the end
of the wind
to the bend
of the track
with the sun
at your back
at your side
in your eyes
with your spikes
in the ground
in the grit
in the sound
of the guy
at your back
at your side
and the dust
in your eye
in the stretch
and the fire
in your throat
at the line
as you jog
to a stop
to rest
in the cool, cool grass
it was all a question of...
[written spring 1965 in Brentwood, Essex, England; published in Greenwood, Brentwood School, summer 1965; also published in The Calhoun Literary Magazine, May 1966]
J'y suis arrivé
tout a fait etranger,
je venais de Calais,
le vent m'y poussait.
Poussiere, fumé,
pierres, acier,
pavées, chantiers,
pleine de gens, d'industrie,
peu de vent, de vie;
de beauté
il n'y avait pas,
sauf toi.
Mais tu as apparu
sur murs, sur rues,
musées, fumee,
chantiers, acier,
je n'y vois que toi.
Quelle belle ville
qu'est Lille.
[written April 1965 in Lille; published in Greenwood, Brentwood School, Essex, summer 1965]
I come from the land of Frost and Sandburg
The land of mountains and cities:
The land that shaped the people
And the people that reshaped the land:
A living organism,
A giant striding toward tomorrow.
I come from the new generation;
I dwell in tomorrow:
When tubes and paper shape minds
And minds reshape tubes and paper:
A maze-trapped mouse
Wondering where he started, where he's going.
[written Feb., 1965 in Brentwood, Essex, England; published in Cyclotron, summer 1965]
In a hither, thither dither; rushing, shoving, pushing,
Dancing with the mob to the tune of
horns, engines, brakes
I chanced upon Avernus in a department store.
The path indeed was easy on a downward escalator
An assembly-line inferno built to suit the population.
There in the emptiness of light-saturated air
Manufactured breezes smothered in sweaty mobs,
Mammon turned housewives into demons
with magic slashes of price.
From this helter-skelter swelter the exit too was easy.
Glad to leave, yet swelled with pride, from Inferno I returned.
Here illumed from every angle, piles of bones, complex stuffed,
Lack the reassuring shadows of by-gone
days.
It was just a lower circle.
In a hither thither dither; rushing, shoving, pushing,
Dancing with the mob to the tune of horns, engines, brakes,
Silently we praise and thank creators of confusion, divinities of diversion,
All sweet saviors from thought.
[written spring 1964 in Plymouth, NH; published in Flame, 1965]
on the sofa, squatting yoga-like
with protruding eyes
small empty island in seas of white
a Ben Gunn, marooned within himself
he hypnotized
or rather spoke with such contagious intensity
that all stared fixedly till the room swam
and he seemed to have a halo
for he had seen God,
or so he said,
and the way he said...
he was a Hebrew prophet
with foaming mouth and wild unworldly eyes
proclaiming the doom of Babylon and Nineveh
the curse of Israel
and a fate worse than death for the unbeliever.
he was a modern American prophet
endorsing the five-dollar God-cube,
the divine peep show
instant Zen,
the all-purpose household...
his eyes could see the essence of the soul
and speak with spirit
or so he said
and he had wandered through the city streets
staring wildly at strangers' eyes
seeing here a glimmer
there an impenetrable darkness,
stopping once to converse with a new-born infant.
he had the power...
but he couldn't see the soul without his glasses.
[written 1965, New Haven, CT]