to Doug & Jan Oliver
“I order you to operate, I was not made to suffer.”
Probing for old wills, and friendships, for to free
to New York city, to be in History, New York City being
History at that time.” “And I traded my nights
for Intensity; & I barter my right to Gold; & I’d traded
my eyes much earlier, when I was circa say seven years old
for ears to hear Who was speaking, & just exactly who
was being told….” & I’m glad
I hear your words so clearly
& I would not have done it
differently
& I’m amused at such simplicity, even so,
inside each & every door. And now I’m with you, instantly,
& I’ll see you tomorrow night, and I see you constantly, hopefully
though one or the other of us is often, to the body-mind’s own self
more or less out of sight! Taking walks down any streets, High
Street, Main Street, walk past my doors! Newtown; Nymph Rd
(on the Mesa); Waveland
Meeting house Lane, in old Southampton; or BelleVue Road
in England, etcetera
Other roads; Manhattan; see them there where open or shut up behind
“I’ve traded sweet lines for answers …”
They don’t serve me anymore.” They still serve me on the floor.
Or,
as now, as floor. Now we look out the windows, go in &
out the doors. The Door.
(That front door which was but & then at that time My door).
I closed it
On the wooing of Helen. “And so we left schools for her.” For
She is not one bit fiction; & she is easy to see;
& she leaves me small room
For contradiction. And she is not alone; & she is not one bit
lonely in the large high room, &
invention is just vanity, which is plain. She
is the heart’s own body, the body’s own mind in itself
self-contained.
& she talks like you; & she has created truly not single-handedly
Our tragic thing, america. And though I would be I am not afraid
of her, & you also not. You, yourself, I,
Me, myself, me. And no, we certainly have not pulled down
our vanity: but
We wear it lightly here,
here where I traded evenly,
& even gladly
health, for sanity; here
where we live day-by-day
on the same spot.
& we two
rarely fail to remember, although we write seldom, & so must seem
gone forever.
In the stained sky over this morning the clouds seem about to burst
What is being remembering
Is how we are, together. Like you we are always bothered, except
by the worst; & we are living
as with you we also were
fired, only, mostly, by changes in the weather. For Oh dear hearts,
When precious baby blows her fuse / it’s just our way
of keeping amused.
That we offer of & as excuse. Here’s to you. All the very best.
What’s your pleasure? Cheers.
Comment form: