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