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 

               

Once, Twice, Thrice.

                               Curvy trunk!
                            Curvy   trunk!
                                  Curvy    trunk!
        
                        morning.

                             Pine pile.
                             Red dead.
                             Cone pieces.

                         morning.

                                 gentle frog.

                                Curvy   trunk!
                              Curvy  trunk!
                           Curvy   trunk!
          
                        morning!

_______________________________________________


Riding out,

sky drools heavy,

 the dropped jaws at Calliope's daughter!   ( ! )

- a gingerly poet on fire while pours buckets.

Riding out,

pelting parades on rain fly. . ..  .. .  . .
 .... .   . .   .  .     .    . .  .   . .  ...  ..  .. . .
. ..    .    . . ..    ..  . .. . ..... .  .. . . .

dad yawns ;

       hopes Sisters gets put out of flame,
  
& none more go up.

_______________________

                 meanders Deschutes.
          no deer in the feed grass.
              flat red earth -
   till the mountains.

          drops off like hatchet split,

                     Palina peak
                     Palina lake.

       this all back in Oregon.
   Livin' there now.
        

Jimmy

Anger he smiles tow'ring shiny metallic purple armour.
Queen jealousy, envy waits behind him.
Her fiery green gown sneers at the grassy ground.
Blue are the life giving waters taking for granted,
They quietly understand.

Once happy turquoise armies lay opposite ready,
But wonder why the fight is on.
But they're all, bold as love.
Yeah, they're all bold as love.
Yeah, they're all bold as love.
Just ask the Axis.

My red is so confident he flashes trophies of war
And ribbons of euphoria.
Orange is young, full of daring but very unsteady for the first go 'round.
My yellow in this case is no so mellow.
In fact I'm trying to say it's frightened like me.
And all of these emotions of mine keep holding me
From giving my life to a rainbow like you.
But I'm a yeah, I'm bold as love,
Yeah yeah.

Well, I'm bold, bold as love.
Hear me talkin', girl.
I'm bold as love.
Just ask the Axis.
He knows everything. Yeah, yeah.

Old Wood you New Growth

The life of an arborist;
         an induction into the scents of timber.
Residue ruining all clothes you own -
Learning to rake, climb, scale, cut, chip, trim, sharpen, tie, prune,
& move as nimbly as Robin the Hood.

Wide Open Universe

      in a whirlwind of color -
   a river of splash -
         conceptions in hatching visions -
   The phrase of modern man -
" That's pretty out there..".....
who sees the figures dancing in warehouse windows
in the cities of a thousand tribes,
& remembers Rome -->>>--------->

Hurley Daze

There was an earthquake last night at ma home.

Michael Hurley keeps playing his songs here.

Tom Robbins is telling me a story.

Sun.

at the social gathering

the shadows became strands of hair,
bobbing like apples in lively tombs of water, & seasonal enigmas of rhythm.
prospering has little to do with you for now -

walking alone has little to do with me for now -

it's just the quirks & tides of catastrophe & birth -
but you sweet artists are seasonally whole, in rupturing, and molding with saps & salves & torrential rains, in which bathe & tilt & swim in the rich fields & currents of life in sound.

always is not so elegant as hope is hoping to witness, & yet all awaits you in the amber resonance of morning embers -

in that color scheme, that pallet of heat, there is nothing but a warm morning.

Consecration

school of soft steps,

deer jitterbugger.

is that perfume i am sentsing?

up tattoo lane is a fortnight, a bakers dozen, & a blue moon decision for performance.

                  welcomes the ink, the soft undulations monitoring happenings like a hidden stellar jay over the plaza.

some months, some days, some ways exalting in glamorous sweet romances, of rose hips &
                                                                                                                              woman hips,
stark fir, fungus remnants.

sweet archetypes of western talkers, who knew so much about jazz & the blues,

because,

things are more the way they are now than they've ever been before.

the Poetics of Long Visions

i went up North.

         i cried upon that way.

    that grand North,

              under Cascades,

           twisting

 oracles of orienteering.

Mahalo

Fair trade,

     hoof clippings off of horse hooves sits the lawn.
pesto sauce boss poach egg leg dusty mouths, cantaloupe, calliope jazz treble.

sun amp, tube amp, ruckus camp, ampersand, blessinks,
            paging, paging, paging,

Frank Fairfield & the migrant workers, living upward in Yakima, that's my Dad, that's me,
that's face value,

that's gone______________________________

The Story of Under

Under stands.

Understands the cosmos,

Under the cosmos,

Under stands the cosmos.

Feet bare, brine hair,

Under stops at the owl of Point Madison.

Under stands at Point Madison.

Understands love.

Under stands,

over.