window eyes

we'll talk, eyes, until we find that thing that we both do or both like or have a family member who did some research on that years ago, a good friend who is studying abroad there.
i dont watch tv, dont bring me that garbage
i havent listened to entire albums of musicians nor know the lyrics much
nor the opening line of their concert at woodstock
i grew up in the city, yo

dont try shivy in on crayons

do you remember that moment at the beach
it was late
and you picked me up in marvin
marvin the mercedes
and we just drove
and i think you knew where you wanted to take me
we drove over the bridge
you took me over the bridge and i never had been
my eyes turned up my breathing was
it was chilly
i was so warm

i told us to take the wrong turn but we got to the beach
and i lost my thoughts in the grey mindnight waves
and your story about water power, cars
your story
and you held me

and you held me

and i knew you were sad
trying not to think of the wound, bleeding
or healing i wasnt sure
and i didnt want to compensate for something
but i was so happy to be there
just there
with you. nothing else needed to be

and you kissed me and it was so perfect. under the city stars distant
the waves played some sort of rhythm and i melted into the crevices of us
and our blanket

and it mattered
and we made love
and shook the tides and chile flooded

but you held me and i felt held for the first time in my life
and didnt concern about self worries that you didnt really want to be holding me

you payed for the toll
and you took all the turns, all the detours i wanted
winding roads

and we made love
and it mattered
and shook the tides and chile flooded

breathing with her

there is something in sustenance
sustainable
and the presence to keep that from drowning

can you imagine

drowning in abundance

a dance of bunnies?

where is the cut off the moment to remember
re-be

is it something that becomes second nature, first nature
just nature
natural

why do you want to know about me
why do i want to share this
myself
is this going to influence how you are
how i am
am i only because you are
or are you because i am

are we this bored

what would you do if you were alone
for so long
long enough
that you wouldnt lose your mind
but you would finally find it

are you really going to understand this
when you read it
if you really ever read it
are you reading
understanding
becoming a part of me
as i become you

who are we
quest

xoxo

cra-bun-din

it is wild -
like a sister, ivy,
seven eight days
minutes
turned on to turn off
not fair
who's say
who has say over my life then
marinade me, fatten me up
to be satisfying for your hunger
brute.

immediate drop into a space of rut
after so long
it has been shuddering

one rabbit
gone
taking with it
my sense of center
your eyes
bunny
your quiver in my arms

welling

bunny

goodbye

sunflower sutra

I walked on the banks of the tincan banana dock and
sat down under the huge shade of a Southern
Pacific locomotive to look at the sunset over the
box house hills and cry.
Jack Kerouac sat beside me on a busted rusty iron
pole, companion, we thought the same thoughts
of the soul, bleak and blue and sad-eyed, sur-
rounded by the gnarled steel roots of trees of
machinery.
The oily water on the river mirrored the red sky, sun
sank on top of final Frisco peaks, no fish in that
stream, no hermit in those mounts, just our-
selves rheumy-eyed and hungover like old bums
on the riverbank, tired and wily.
Look at the Sunflower, he said, there was a dead gray
shadow against the sky, big as a man, sitting
dry on top of a pile of ancient sawdust--
--I rushed up enchanted--it was my first sunflower,
memories of Blake--my visions--Harlem
and Hells of the Eastern rivers, bridges clanking Joes
Greasy Sandwiches, dead baby carriages, black
treadless tires forgotten and unretreaded, the
poem of the riverbank, condoms & pots, steel
knives, nothing stainless, only the dank muck
and the razor-sharp artifacts passing into the
past--
and the gray Sunflower poised against the sunset,
crackly bleak and dusty with the smut and smog
and smoke of olden locomotives in its eye--
corolla of bleary spikes pushed down and broken like
a battered crown, seeds fallen out of its face,
soon-to-be-toothless mouth of sunny air, sun-
rays obliterated on its hairy head like a dried
wire spiderweb,
leaves stuck out like arms out of the stem, gestures
from the sawdust root, broke pieces of plaster
fallen out of the black twigs, a dead fly in its ear,
Unholy battered old thing you were, my sunflower O
my soul, I loved you then!
The grime was no man's grime but death and human
locomotives,
all that dress of dust, that veil of darkened railroad
skin, that smog of cheek, that eyelid of black
mis'ry, that sooty hand or phallus or protuber-
ance of artificial worse-than-dirt--industrial--
modern--all that civilization spotting your
crazy golden crown--
and those blear thoughts of death and dusty loveless
eyes and ends and withered roots below, in the
home-pile of sand and sawdust, rubber dollar
bills, skin of machinery, the guts and innards
of the weeping coughing car, the empty lonely
tincans with their rusty tongues alack, what
more could I name, the smoked ashes of some
cock cigar, the cunts of wheelbarrows and the
milky breasts of cars, wornout asses out of chairs
& sphincters of dynamos--all these
entangled in your mummied roots--and you there
standing before me in the sunset, all your glory
in your form!
A perfect beauty of a sunflower! a perfect excellent
lovely sunflower existence! a sweet natural eye
to the new hip moon, woke up alive and excited
grasping in the sunset shadow sunrise golden
monthly breeze!
How many flies buzzed round you innocent of your
grime, while you cursed the heavens of the rail-
road and your flower soul?
Poor dead flower? when did you forget you were a
flower? when did you look at your skin and
decide you were an impotent dirty old locomo-
tive? the ghost of a locomotive? the specter and
shade of a once powerful mad American locomo-
tive?
You were never no locomotive, Sunflower, you were a
sunflower!
And you Locomotive, you are a locomotive, forget me
not!
So I grabbed up the skeleton thick sunflower and stuck
it at my side like a scepter,
and deliver my sermon to my soul, and Jack's soul
too, and anyone who'll listen,
--We're not our skin of grime, we're not our dread
bleak dusty imageless locomotive, we're all
beautiful golden sunflowers inside, we're bles-
sed by our own seed & golden hairy naked ac-
complishment-bodies growing into mad black
formal sunflowers in the sunset, spied on by our
eyes under the shadow of the mad locomotive
riverbank sunset Frisco hilly tincan evening sit-
down vision.

Berkeley, 1955