Monday, June 24, 2019
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PO Box 2454
West Brattleboro, Vermont
Sunday, June 23, 2019
A Flurry of Snow
What flitted back across the hills yesternight, without a sound
I thought was a long buried matter of the heart
from the deepest recesses of a valley wallowing in death
With my own eyes I saw her open a little doorway onto the garden
tentatively venture forth, look here, there, then
promptly disappear, leaving, in the end, still
the very heart of winter, nothing but traces
translated by Steve Bradbury
Hawk of the Mind
Saturday, June 22, 2019
Friday, June 21, 2019
Thursday, June 20, 2019
Wednesday, June 19, 2019
Outside, nothing moves: only the rain
nailing the house up like a coffin.
Remember, in childhood, when it rained?
Then, the whole world sailed down the alley:
leaves, paper, old shoes, the buildings,
everything like a circus going to sea.
Now, the rain, the iron rain, with its little keys
is closing all the doors. . .
and I think we're all dead. See how the sky
sits like a tombstone on the roofs.
Evening on the Farm
Time for a jacket now,
and to put my hands away.
I must learn from the stars
how a field should look.
But one by one, bright children,
the stars rush downstairs
to meet my horses and hay
with their astonished eyes.
I love you
I've learned to be
this hammer that runs
all day like a horse
with its hoof in its head.
In the afternoon
lie down together
for a minute.
Twilight at the Shop
A whole day at the saw —
when they come for the rubbish,
I throw myself
out with the dust.
We smile and smoke and praise
what's left of the sun.
Dark trees have bottled its light.
They glow like many beers.
Sunlight on the Wall
Tuesday, June 18, 2019
Monday, June 17, 2019
Sunday, June 16, 2019
Saturday, June 15, 2019
Nightly I write you letters
but morning is always a cancelled gray envelope
stamped ADDRESS UNKNOWN.
I've been wanting to tell you
how things are since you have gone:
the cherry trees still looks into your window
and offers its arms full of small birds
of your last Spring.
I've packed your luggage —
that worn leather suitcase with the labels of epochs
and sent it on freedom rides
to Mississippi jails.
Your clothes closet, once gay
as a carnival of bears
with your checkered shirts and poet's neckties
holds the odor of dead flowers
and more sinister than shadows
motes of dust in faded sunbeams
swing suspended from bare wire hangers.
Your rough jackets have gone
with their bearings —
they have given me their last embraces
to link arms with new companions
and your shoes are out walking again
on new picket lines.
But the grief of your old eyeglasses
that you patched with Scotch tape
is more than I can bear.
Lying in the lamplight before an open book
they watch me from a void
of vacant lenses
as I go from room to room on perilous journeys
groping with my fingers to construct your face,
seeking the answer of your lips
upon the sundered air
the way it was the last time I kissed you
under the wings of the Angel
The Evaporated Man
Olga was a very early friend to Longhouse
— we miss her.
Friday, June 14, 2019
Thursday, June 13, 2019
Wednesday, June 12, 2019
St. Louis Poems
God runs a gas station in
East St. Louis, wears
big blue dungarees.
What angels in the gold rest rooms,
what music of the organ pumps tonight? O
Croak not Black Angel, the
truck pulls out to
flame the streets at zero.
Gene showed essentially a square attitude
toward the new myth of mud skinned angels, and when
confronted with the knife in a most
serious "dance of the syllables,"
subtly cooled from exclamation
mark to dash
No Splibbins, No Smacks, No Straights.
When yr supply is
on w / a stick of garbage
or shoot gold dust from the sun.
After the desertion (a)
Streets empty in gray absence of light
their prints swept away by alto winds
the gods have deserted the city
their shoes hang in Good Will Stores
or writhe in incinerators
Lami's silver shoes among them — faster than
new sneakers for a
flight of thieves —
flame blue at last.
Lami was Joe Angel, Johnny the Fag,
Rimbaud, the Road Runner, myself.
The idea of the image is murdered,
debris wins at last.
Mind is free of imagination at last &
shits gaily in the streets, floods
paper buildings &
shines fresh in the garbage sun.
Citizens' bodies turn, bloat
in eddies, &
flow back to sea.
After the desertion (b)
Gray absence of light.
newspapers blow loosely in the streets like
Spanish galleys crumpling against lamp posts or
curb in tiny convulsions; no tragedy — they
billow off in the next breeze.
The gods have deserted.
Their prints erased by alto winds the
gods have deserted the city.
Their shoes hang in Good Will Stores or
writhe in incineraters — one last dance before
debris wins at last.
Mind has conquested imagination &
shits gaily in the streets,
streams from paper buildings, slime
in the ashen sun.
Bodies putrefy in doorways, only the eyes
flicker short-circuited by the
senses, their eyes convict me,
No they cannot see, they have
abstracted the sun & are lost
in me the dreamer,
only I am not dead for I dream,
my spirit-candle electrifying the
Alden Van Buskirk
THE LAST POEMS OF A POET
WHO DIED IN 1961 IN HIS EARLY 20s
collected from his writings by David Rattray
WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY ALLEN GINSBERG
The Auerhahn Society,
San Francisco, 1965
Tuesday, June 11, 2019
Monday, June 10, 2019
Sunday, June 9, 2019
Saturday, June 8, 2019
I just rose from the dead.
"Do you feel tired?" I asked.
A little. I'm also hungry.
Then she hugged me.
"Are you hugging me because I'm about to take your place in the afterlife?"
Maybe? I could also be hugging you because I like you.
"I've never dated anyone who was previously dead before."
I've never dated anyone who's about to die.
"How long do I have?"
Still embracing me, she looked into my eyes and then I knew that we
would kiss. Kiss we did. Her mouth tasted of flowers that had been
placed inside a coffin. I started crying.
"I can taste death in you."
She started crying as well. I wiped the tears from her eyes.
"I wish I didn't have to die," I told her.
Your wish is my command, she said.
Then we lived happily ever after.
Blue Whale Phenomena
Otis College of Art and Design