faintly)
the staring out of windows, whites of its paws
fog turns, blinks @ me
green tresses of spruce, sunk pink sunlight nets needles, grass swells, rain falls;
pinks netting needles leave Sitka spruce singing in rain, again rains rain fat globes of glob drops; cat crosses my hands, jumps down calm; rains rain a-patting—seem to think world stands static, that I can still think to own worlds I thought I owned before, alas, the words, the worlds, who owns nothing can be nothing, I own nothing, know no thing, a new since (G.
Stein) world since here, Alaska they write, write unborn, the words I don’t seem, never seemed—no I don’t—seemed to know
fat white globs of rain rain down, her head uncovered, her hood mostly brown blown down; waking
this July, rosy-handy Donna spreading her tentacles round, warmly—that’s
Surrealism cat, dig that? Showers rain down today, in fact, showers rain mainly the entirety of all these doggone days, all Ketchikan day
these doggone July days, & when the sun shines forth (briefly) breaking base contagious clouds to smithereens shrapnel of light bars scintillating on ocean blinds me—hot rainbow embers the Cannon sd
ravens (big as jets) & seagulls & eagles, rain weaves blankets of soliloquy, rain fingers snap, kissing eyes closed & fireweed fat w/ dripped clocks white surrealism, dig that? ask myself what about that seem to not write that, seem to miss the sound of this epic never begun, make a bet, bet you can, Ketchikan, Mr. Brecht sd Epic
reversed, the Othello moment of relapse when I see mucus dripping from a nose w/ sleeve wiped, then from a lurched scarf, whose nose I speak to, a more familiar too, too solid nose, a wished for more familiarity through distance voiced directly, knows directly it launched into a cupped hand, directly it landed & atoms sent themselves loaded into dust & sunlight breaking, breaking yonder-like little planets of eyes outshining skynight
epic, begun from this supplemental center, glanced the
media-res periphery, decided Porphyro not the least worthy, rather Raven stealing the moon, dig that moon Grandfather, cracking that cedar chest for who else but us, & who cd
offer not lost, not saw, days of pictures untaken, promises
misbehaved primroses broken like clouds shattered into smithereens &
the sunlight hurts mine eyes (sic), can hardly hear them squinting, squealing; blue sunlight struck, blown from continually gray skies stings mine eyes (sic); I remember the smell of dead salmon “spawn[ed] till [they] die[d]” approaching & cruise liners lining island—O myholytourismdollars—actually hotels
holding K’s holytourismdollars. My windows fogged.
Ravens & eagles & seagulls I dig, dig them all, rain still falls (flatly, faintly)
staring out of window the whites of fog paws, can hardly sense--
rain
closing closer, cd sniff an end of sea life, whale road, anemones,
a game of poker w/ Mr Mayor, meaning what, meaning
What, you mean no one does Pound anymore?
Ιερή κόλαση!
Yea I read the Frost here & Shakespeare, hell I read Shakespeare on the air to all those inhabiting community radioland
Alas, Alaska, I’ll remember you in my heart right next to the snails I de-shelled & salted when I was in third grade
pines grow right up against the tide & mists of ocean crawl up nostrils
Alaska I wonder when the days of you will slap me again
AK I’ve offered you my little life
& for but a few more days--
Alaska art kills here save for crafts crafted handily—save those totems
of grandiosity narrating culture becoming
Alaska I went to my first quilt show here & yet
is this sequel of the initial poem when I held you so reverent?
but besides the weather everything's fine,
I think I'm moving along fine--
wd seem a second: knave fine time, fine AK even
if I think yr social programs for me reeked foul so very far from the People—One cd never regret
AK I picked up trash for yr
homeless, AK I read
poems to yr young,
carried cans for Armed Salvation, AK how can the distance from, say, a me push me further still
—¡aye!—
& yesterday, no the day before, I called my girl Foucault
Say K, AK, can you believe in a year I’ll be writing abt Foucault like I knew he sat on my lap & blew me kisses & Mr. Whitman, which way does yr beard point tonight?
rd a book about Impressionists this morning & I’m sick of watercolors
Alaska I’ve boozed here more than ever I’ve in my entire life
maybe days in winter when I brushed snow off stair banisters w/ my sleeve because I cd actually chilled me more than I thought. Watching
sun set @ three o’clock. Fickle, fickle tone
deaf too when I sing da da dada skiffs here bruise my shins when I step aboard sissy-style
but I’m so fickle ahorita I seem to mistake down for up in my cliché notebook musing music here this, this night
DRUM dum dum DRUM dum dum DRUM DRUM dum DRUM dum dummmm
as if the day ever cd start earlier sun-up hotel boats cargoed money
making of Carnival™ americans maps of Xmas
frontier bruised me here & here [displaying shoulder, torso] & healed me there & there [referencing noggin, stomach], held me, helped me to find me & near concluding yr mercy gets meaner each night as I climb so many, many damn stairs “town of stilts”. Living among ravens, eagles & the angles of rain prompts me to gather my wits in my guts, lusting for beauty always, finding Alaska inherently inclusive to vagrants (& beauty) of all shapes—in particular those searching for voice in dated MAKEITNEW of MAKEITUSED. OK AK let’s shake. AK we’re of one grain, ya made the first incisions deep, now relax AK, rest yr head, let’s make, let’s make sleep
flatly, faintly (warmly
the staring out of windows, whites of its paws
fog turns, blinks @ me
green tresses of spruce, sunk pink sunlight nets needles, grass swells, rain falls;
pinks netting needles leave Sitka spruce singing in rain, again rains rain fat globes of glob drops; cat crosses my hands, jumps down calm; rains rain a-patting—seem to think world stands static, that I can still think to own worlds I thought I owned before, alas, the words, the worlds, who owns nothing can be nothing, I own nothing, know no thing, a new since (G.
Stein) world since here, Alaska they write, write unborn, the words I don’t seem, never seemed—no I don’t—seemed to know
fat white globs of rain rain down, her head uncovered, her hood mostly brown blown down; waking
this July, rosy-handy Donna spreading her tentacles round, warmly—that’s
Surrealism cat, dig that? Showers rain down today, in fact, showers rain mainly the entirety of all these doggone days, all Ketchikan day
these doggone July days, & when the sun shines forth (briefly) breaking base contagious clouds to smithereens shrapnel of light bars scintillating on ocean blinds me—hot rainbow embers the Cannon sd
ravens (big as jets) & seagulls & eagles, rain weaves blankets of soliloquy, rain fingers snap, kissing eyes closed & fireweed fat w/ dripped clocks white surrealism, dig that? ask myself what about that seem to not write that, seem to miss the sound of this epic never begun, make a bet, bet you can, Ketchikan, Mr. Brecht sd Epic
reversed, the Othello moment of relapse when I see mucus dripping from a nose w/ sleeve wiped, then from a lurched scarf, whose nose I speak to, a more familiar too, too solid nose, a wished for more familiarity through distance voiced directly, knows directly it launched into a cupped hand, directly it landed & atoms sent themselves loaded into dust & sunlight breaking, breaking yonder-like little planets of eyes outshining skynight
epic, begun from this supplemental center, glanced the
media-res periphery, decided Porphyro not the least worthy, rather Raven stealing the moon, dig that moon Grandfather, cracking that cedar chest for who else but us, & who cd
offer not lost, not saw, days of pictures untaken, promises
misbehaved primroses broken like clouds shattered into smithereens &
the sunlight hurts mine eyes (sic), can hardly hear them squinting, squealing; blue sunlight struck, blown from continually gray skies stings mine eyes (sic); I remember the smell of dead salmon “spawn[ed] till [they] die[d]” approaching & cruise liners lining island—O myholytourismdollars—actually hotels
holding K’s holytourismdollars. My windows fogged.
Ravens & eagles & seagulls I dig, dig them all, rain still falls (flatly, faintly)
staring out of window the whites of fog paws, can hardly sense--
rain
closing closer, cd sniff an end of sea life, whale road, anemones,
a game of poker w/ Mr Mayor, meaning what, meaning
What, you mean no one does Pound anymore?
Ιερή κόλαση!
Yea I read the Frost here & Shakespeare, hell I read Shakespeare on the air to all those inhabiting community radioland
Alas, Alaska, I’ll remember you in my heart right next to the snails I de-shelled & salted when I was in third grade
pines grow right up against the tide & mists of ocean crawl up nostrils
Alaska I wonder when the days of you will slap me again
AK I’ve offered you my little life
& for but a few more days--
Alaska art kills here save for crafts crafted handily—save those totems
of grandiosity narrating culture becoming
Alaska I went to my first quilt show here & yet
is this sequel of the initial poem when I held you so reverent?
but besides the weather everything's fine,
I think I'm moving along fine--
wd seem a second: knave fine time, fine AK even
if I think yr social programs for me reeked foul so very far from the People—One cd never regret
AK I picked up trash for yr
homeless, AK I read
poems to yr young,
carried cans for Armed Salvation, AK how can the distance from, say, a me push me further still
—¡aye!—
& yesterday, no the day before, I called my girl Foucault
Say K, AK, can you believe in a year I’ll be writing abt Foucault like I knew he sat on my lap & blew me kisses & Mr. Whitman, which way does yr beard point tonight?
rd a book about Impressionists this morning & I’m sick of watercolors
Alaska I’ve boozed here more than ever I’ve in my entire life
maybe days in winter when I brushed snow off stair banisters w/ my sleeve because I cd actually chilled me more than I thought. Watching
sun set @ three o’clock. Fickle, fickle tone
deaf too when I sing da da dada skiffs here bruise my shins when I step aboard sissy-style
but I’m so fickle ahorita I seem to mistake down for up in my cliché notebook musing music here this, this night
DRUM dum dum DRUM dum dum DRUM DRUM dum DRUM dum dummmm
as if the day ever cd start earlier sun-up hotel boats cargoed money
making of Carnival™ americans maps of Xmas
frontier bruised me here & here [displaying shoulder, torso] & healed me there & there [referencing noggin, stomach], held me, helped me to find me & near concluding yr mercy gets meaner each night as I climb so many, many damn stairs “town of stilts”. Living among ravens, eagles & the angles of rain prompts me to gather my wits in my guts, lusting for beauty always, finding Alaska inherently inclusive to vagrants (& beauty) of all shapes—in particular those searching for voice in dated MAKEITNEW of MAKEITUSED. OK AK let’s shake. AK we’re of one grain, ya made the first incisions deep, now relax AK, rest yr head, let’s make, let’s make sleep
flatly, faintly (warmly
