Compassion Confesses the Compass

Hallelujah


South

slow time, ticks the fast day,
with all the entrepreneurial human type,
& thank the Good lord for it,
too.

public radio gave me the song,
just a sizzle of a tinge,
'nough pitter patter to kick rocks,
feed up, slurp joe, take a photo,
write a poem, talk up with a day walker,
& feel it Good & all.

West

coast lies here,
in truth it lays,
salivates a salty mongrel breach on
the shores of the end of land above water,

casts dreams whirlin' through skin
like a lost fish hook string to the moon,
spars with salmon, gives & takes life.

spruce trees grow big sways, a whole
rot of moss, lichen it's akin to,
all kind of wood, where this alls how
effects the people.

North

conglomerate, sedimentary tractor scuff
of a wheat bucket sack o' potatoes
at the base of rocky towers so jagged & fine -
where the cold migrates to, where the solitary
etches of hearts find families in tufts
of season & long stories sewn up tight
enough to keep warm under.
too wet to live in under a tipi.

East

Oxford! New Oxford!
or it must be Englands New Jersey
shored up an itch shy of the Carolinas
blue mountain shambles & Appalachian
strut fonts with button up teachers,
maybe equal if not more coffee than North,

all rung out like perm pressed swim trunks,
power lines in the rain, Jewish bagels,
the newspaper, classical history,
& a whole host of stone
built educational arguments for the sake
of it.

Allen Ginsberg I know at least -

      never been east.

Hallelujah

Romance

- i like to walk,
          if not sauntering
          or shuffling,

clay cup with handle,

- you might say, "a mug,"

in hand,

with maybe a dollar & 50 cents
or more or less in the pants
pockets,

& bounces the cup off the
pocket & shakes the coins
in a jingle that rings as you
walk

- Romance
      

Contiguous

      Merit     Merit     Merit,
that's words.
with & without history.

- New History ^

to be merried

eloping with day -

      

             comes on early,

         noon spent by 12:01 -

         spent zest on morning,

         cost ten fingers to the mingling tunes -

         pressed snooze at 5 minutes per buzz

             from 7:30 - 9.

            cup of coff.

            bucket o' home press juice -

          out on a zing.

            came 'round that marvel,

       up in foliage,

       St. Helens yonder,

       past industry,

       past Sauvies Island -

   - St. Johns bridge -

            Old camera shop -

        searched up & down the 

        used to be familiar streets.

        outfitted grandpas Old cameras -

        "they still make film for that one"

                 - (polaroid)

           in & out a few doors 

         glass & metal browsing -

         Anna Bananas for afternoon cup.

        Saga, you gotta'

        New York,

        Portland,

        in the city,

        at peace.

Bending

in the scant dribbles of soft bursters on prickly plants.

              Oregon is no Arizona.

birds fed full on plums,

              only the library left for the bums,

                 (& the church feed)
                               .

home coming king

going through warm springs.

zagging under a tipi.

    Native drumming induced -

- ( looking at all horizons ) -

over the radio waves & to the woods,

where the high desert meets the forests of

Mountain Hood

  at sundown -

poems names themselves after speaking

       Fly fishing the river of time

              Wildlife -

                 imaginative sparks abound in telecaster 

                 hair,

                      boyhood, birds...

               stand on frills.

                      

                    I am an old man now,   a soul,

                  a young poet of 22,

                  my poems come from the world i see,

                  & we share.

               there are old things in places,

            mixed in with the birth of new ages 

            & technological upheavals 

                                           that

                                              uproot

                 the past like a monied frenzied land lord

             with a building full of poor artist tenants

            who are the wood, brick,

                      & stone in water.

             "but that building has the best views of the city"

        - remarks Air of Constancy.

           his paintbrush comes to life, breathing in

           coastal mornings dim flutters of fog & light play,

           horse hairs bounding in

                 strides of colour,

         - the gallops of once.

           there is a licking of the lips,

         a peacefully possessed wink,

     & a thick swallow -

       " that is where the coyote meets

  the man with the raven on his shoulder"

             said old bark

             to new yap.

        you are easily florid,

     an Olympian aesthete

      of early morning,

      late evening,

           shivering & sweat.

- Curb Appeal