It Is Undone Business I Speak Of, This Morning

• Some post-giftmas post past I wrote about sitting on sofa drinking coffee thinking I need to shave but not moving to get up and shave, redux 2019
• Log, Rachel Carson Trail, yesterday, all I want to do is hike with Earthgirl

• I am not aghast, on page 10 of new black lighthouse, I do not remember the order of colors of the three previous lighthouses (I know the last was red/orange) though I did, last night, trying to fall asleep, playing one of the games I play to shut-off brain, in frightened preview at my future memory's failures via the maternal line, need to look up the name of the river through Zanesville, Ohio, Muskthis, Muskthat, google told me, on my fumbled in the dark phone, it's Muskingam
• Rest in peace David Riley:

• The giftmas eve confessions of a Villager idiot (who hasn't figured out yet his bosses know and have always known) who will choose to keep his job rather than act honorably on his epiphany
• It's not my Maryland district (I'm 8th), but I just gave money to McKayla Wilkes not only because McKayla Wilkes but also too fuck Henny Stoyer
• Republicans are pigs, crackers are pussies, Democrats are the enemy
• Crackers are pussies, and it works, feature not bug
• Republicans are pigs, crackers are pussies, Democrats are the enemy 
• Another front opened in the anti-Bernie Bernie can win campaign
• RIP William Greider
• You are literally working for Silicon Valley
• Purple Line to Tysons Corners?
• I don't begrudge the money, but we park at Falls and MacArthur and walk the trails down the five miles down and back to Great Falls
• Charles Olson born 109 years ago today

MAXIMUS, TO HIMSELF

Charles Olson

I have had to learn the simplest things

last. Which made for difficulties.

Even at sea I was slow, to get the hand out, or to cross   

a wet deck.

               The sea was not, finally, my trade.

But even my trade, at it, I stood estranged

from that which was most familiar. Was delayed,

and not content with the man’s argument

that such postponement   

is now the nature of

obedience,

               that we are all late

               in a slow time,

               that we grow up many

               And the single   

               is not easily

               known

 

It could be, though the sharpness (the achiote)   

I note in others,

makes more sense

than my own distances. The agilities

 

               they show daily

               who do the world’s   

               businesses

               And who do nature’s   

               as I have no sense   

               I have done either

 

I have made dialogues,

have discussed ancient texts,

have thrown what light I could, offered   

what pleasures

doceat allows

               

               But the known?

This, I have had to be given,

a life, love, and from one man   

the world.

               Tokens.

               But sitting here

               I look out as a wind   

               and water man, testing   

               And missing

               some proof

 

I know the quarters

of the weather, where it comes from,   

where it goes. But the stem of me,   

this I took from their welcome,

or their rejection, of me

 

               And my arrogance

               was neither diminished   

               nor increased,

               by the communication

 

 

2

 

It is undone business

I speak of, this morning,   

with the sea

stretching out

from my feet

It Is Undone Business I Speak Of, This Morning, or: Born 103 Years Ago Today

MAXIMUS TO GLOUCESTER, LETTER 27 [WITHHELD]

Charles Olson

I come back to the geography of it,
the land falling off to the left
where my father shot his scabby golf
and the rest of us played baseball
into the summer darkness until no flies
could be seen and we came home
to our various piazzas where the women
buzzed

To the left the land fell to the city,
is of a tent spread to feed lobsters
to Rexall conventioneers, and my father,
a man for kicks, came out of the tent roaring
with a bread-knife in his teeth to take care of
a druggist they'd told him had made a pass at
my mother, she laughing, so sure, as round
as her face, Hines pink and apple,
under one of those frame hats women then


This, is no bare incoming
of abstract form, this

is no welter or the forms
of those events, this,

Greeks, is the stopping
of the battle

          It is the imposing
of all those antecedent predecessions, the precessions

of me, the generation of those facts
which are my words, it is coming

from all that I no longer am, yet am,
the slow westward motion of

more than I am


There is no strict personal order

for my inheritance.


               No Greek will be able

to discriminate by body.

                    An American

is a complex of occasions,

themselves a geometry

of spatial nature.


          I have this sense,

that I am one

with my skin


               Plus this - plus this:

that forever the geography

which leans in

on me I compel

backwards I compel Gloucester

to yield, to

change

          Polis

is this

I posted this and the two poems and photo last year on Olson's birthday:
  

It's been 25 years since I read The Maximus Poems. A friend has been badgering me to revisit Olson, especially since I've been posting Black Mountain occasionally this past year; the Library's beaten, pencil-marked and high-lighted copy has been on my desk since last week when I grabbed it from a pile of discharged books; I stumble upon his birthday today; I've got Amazon gift cards in my wallet: 2013 to be the year I reread The Maximus Poems, expect lots of poems here.

UPDATE! 2013 was also supposed to be the year of Proust, that didn't work out, but it WAS! the year of The Maximus Poems, not every day - on purpose, the first time since the last time until the next time that's worked - but in sequence, the first half of 2014 (at least) will be year I finish rereading The Maximus poems. As for lots here, my favorite ones are hard to find to copy and paste, ridiculously hard if not impossible to type, and I didn't think anyone would mind.

THE CONDITION OF THE LIGHT FROM THE SUN

on ground level
up on top of the world
the Bulgar and his sons
in the eye of ice
over the left shoulder
North North East
on a line extending
directly half way distance
between the left neck
and the ridge above
the road which passes over
the top of the world
constituted of color
divided among them
the Throne the Kingdom the Power

 

• The Bettie Serveert song is Theme Song Four because it makes me stupidly happy, I daydream I could someday be that happy, but when I change bloglook like I compulsively need to every time since the last until the next it's the Theme Song I don't think is ceremoniously necessary on the first day, the only one necessary on the second.
• The Surface.
• Today's Maqroll precept:

A knife in the body of a sleeping man. The bare lips of a wound that does not bleed. Vertigo, the death rattle, the final stillness. Like certain truths that life fires at us - insoluble, unerring, erratic, indifferent life.

• Mirror and self: on narcissism.
• Modernity, enchantment, fictionalism.
• Top 100 Tweeting Bloggers! I've only 371,883 fewer followers than number one.
• Professional Suicide, part 1.
• Vote Goat in 2014!
• Ten history books you need read?
• RIP Paul Blair.
• 2014 is going to be the year I really read Emily Dickinson for the first time.
• Emily Dickinson writes a letter. 
• Alright, have this Olson poem below the song.
• Fell asleep listening to Coil, woke up with Coil in my head. I realize Coil doesn't really fit with Charles Olson poems (though I could be wrong). I am not allowed to listen to Coil on trips to and from Ohio to visit Planet. More in weeks ahead.

MAXIMUS, TO HIMSELF

Charles Olson

I have had to learn the simplest things

last. Which made for difficulties.

Even at sea I was slow, to get the hand out, or to cross   

a wet deck.

               The sea was not, finally, my trade.

But even my trade, at it, I stood estranged

from that which was most familiar. Was delayed,

and not content with the man’s argument

that such postponement   

is now the nature of

obedience,

               that we are all late

               in a slow time,

               that we grow up many

               And the single   

               is not easily

               known

It could be, though the sharpness (the achiote)   

I note in others,

makes more sense

than my own distances. The agilities

               they show daily

               who do the world’s   

               businesses

               And who do nature’s   

               as I have no sense   

               I have done either

I have made dialogues,

have discussed ancient texts,

have thrown what light I could, offered   

what pleasures

doceat allows

               

               But the known?

This, I have had to be given,

a life, love, and from one man   

the world.

               Tokens.

               But sitting here

               I look out as a wind   

               and water man, testing   

               And missing

               some proof

I know the quarters

of the weather, where it comes from,   

where it goes. But the stem of me,   

this I took from their welcome,

or their rejection, of me

               And my arrogance

               was neither diminished   

               nor increased,

               by the communication

2

It is undone business

I speak of, this morning,   

with the sea

stretching out

from my feet

In a Corner of the Labyrinth of Fences

This is the marina house and marina in Deale, Maryland that Earthgirl and I lived in for two and a half years years from January 1988 through Summer 1990 at the beginning of our marriage. The family friend who owns the marina and rented us the house in 1988 thought we'd enjoy seeing the inside of the house in 2013 - he's between renters and he's made improvements on the interior since 1990, the last time we were inside the house - so yesterday Earthgirl and I and Planet and Ari drove down. Photos and paragraphs for the five or six of you who've been there though not for twenty-three years.

One Deale story: I went out for coffee one Sunday morning to the 7-11, crowded because it was the only place open for five miles in any direction, so I parked next to the dumpster. Come out with two coffees, set them on the roof of an off-gold Honda Civic hatchback (which was stolen from the street at the next house we lived in in Glen Echo), and I hear whimpering inside the dumpster. Eight week old puppy in a taped cardboard box. Katie.

Our family friend and former landlord also took us to his farm in Calvert County (the blueberries are five or six days from perfect, dang), then took us to lunch at a cafe back in Deale that served - and I shit you not - the best homemade crab-cakes and tartar sauce and cole slaw and fries I have ever eaten. I shit you not. Over lunch he treated us - kindly, gently, avuncularly, as if giving us advice he doesn't give to any but family - to his inner Rush Limbaugh on economic matters and inner Michael Savage on classifications of work habits of particular racial groups. No, I mean he cites with approval assertions Limbaugh and Savage make. Always has. He's a retired world class psychiatrist who has saved the lives of countless broken and hurting people, he is one of the kindest, most generous persons I've known in my lifetime. I nodded and ate.

• He thinks of us as brainwashed liberals yet loves us anyway because of how we've lived our lives.
• I think of him as brainwashed conservative but love him anyway for how he's lived his life.
• He is not the problem. I am not the solution.
• Here's how nuts I am (and by I I mean nobody but me): No, I don't think that Michael Hastings was wet-jobbed by Corporate, though such are the days we live in the possibility is certainly plausible, but then I thought, what if he was wet-jobbed in the sloppiest fashion at a moment when a majority of Americans are temporarily freaked at confirmation of what they imagined but never thought they'd hear spoken as incontrovertibly true re: the police state we live in in order to taunt the conspiracy nuts into paroxysms of paranoid claims that damages the nuts credibility when more sloppy wet-jobs start increasing in frequency? Work with me. Strange days we live in, that's plausible too.
• Suggesting what might be plausible.
• Reactions to suggesting what might be plausible.
• UPDATE! On the above.
• UPDATE! Hastings' last article - Why Democrats love to spy on Americans.
• Strange days, everything is plausible. For the record, I don't think Snowden is a plant. My contention is that while Snowden's revelations temporarily (and wonderfully) inconvenience Power's panopticon upper management, operators, and technicians Snowden's revelations also advance the long-term interest of Power.
• Domestic spying with drones! but only in very minimal way.
• Hot XXX drone-on-drone action. Not that I'll see the movie.
• Life under NYPD surveillance.
• Another zombie lurch towards police state.
• On bitcoin.

• What actually happens.
• The Church songs via Jim's requests in comments yesterday.
• Olney! Batchellors Forest Road is a cool road.
• Bear spotted near Casa Satanica!
• Clarksburg continues to morph into motherfucking Germantown.
• Later.
• UPDATE! Trolling poetry readers.
• UPDATE! Trolling Kafka readers.
• Coetzee, for those of you who do, first thoughts on his new novel.
• Why yes, this is still the year I read The Maximus Poems.
• UPDATE! Know what? Fuck this.
• The Mind.
• Radio on.
• Morton Feldman.

THE LIBRARIAN

Charles Olson

The landscape (the landscape!) again: Gloucester,

the shore one of me is (duplicates), and from which

(from offshore, I, Maximus) am removed, observe.

In this night I moved on the territory with combinations

(new mixtures) of old and known personages: the leader,

my father, in an old guise, here selling books and manuscripts.

My thought was, as I looked in the window of his shop,

there should be materials here for Maximus, when, then,

I saw he was the young musician has been there (been before me)

before. It turned out it wasn’t a shop, it was a loft (wharf-

house) in which, as he walked me around, a year ago

came back (I had been there before, with my wife and son,

I didn’t remember, he presented me insinuations via

himself and his girl) both of whom I had known for years.

But never in Gloucester. I had moved them in, to my country.

His previous appearance had been in my parents’ bedroom where I

found him intimate with my former wife: this boy

was now the Librarian of Gloucester, Massachusetts!

 

                         Black space,

                         old fish-house.

                         Motions

                         of ghosts.

                         I,

                         dogging

                         his steps.

                         He

                         (not my father,

                         by name himself

                         with his face

                         twisted

                         at birth)

                         possessed of knowledge

                         pretentious

                         giving me

                         what in the instant

                         I knew better of.

 

                         But the somber

                         place, the flooring

                         crude like a wharf’s

                         and a barn’s

                         space

I was struck by the fact I was in Gloucester, and that my daughter

was there—that I would see her! She was over the Cut. I

hadn’t even connected her with my being there, that she was

here. That she was there (in the Promised Land—the Cut!

But there was this business, of poets, that all my Jews

were in the fish-house too, that the Librarian had made a party

I was to read. They were. There were many of them, slumped

around. It was not for me. I was outside. It was the Fort.

The Fort was in East Gloucester—old Gorton’s Wharf, where the Library

was. It was a region of coal houses, bins. In one a gang

was beating someone to death, in a corner of the labyrinth

of fences. I could see their arms and shoulders whacking

down. But not the victim. I got out of there. But cops

tailed me along the Fort beach toward the Tavern

                         The places still

                         half-dark, mud,

                         coal dust.

                         There is no light

                         east

                         of the Bridge

                         Only on the headland

                         toward the harbor

                         from Cressy’s

                         have I seen it (once

                         when my daughter ran

                         out on a spit of sand

                         isn’t even there.) Where

                         is Bristow? when does I-A

                         get me home? I am caught

                         in Gloucester. (What’s buried

                         behind Lufkin’s

                         Diner? Who is

                         Frank Moore?  

Brains Are Not to Be Wasted

Yes, there was an oil painting and mountain goats (sculptures, not the band, which I don't hate but strongly meh), the artist claimed copyright and demanded the piece be withdrawn. Here's good news - fucking blooger won't allow c/ping this morning, neither alt-c/alt-v crtl-c/ctrl-v or right clicking mouse. Actually, it pastes it so the code can be seen when composing is open to html but it doesn't appear in wysiwyg or when the preview post is viewed. Oh, and I keep getting a pink banner across the top telling me some unspecified error occurred which may or not fuck up the post. Oh, and link button isn't working, so today's links - and dang, they are the best links ever - tomorrow, maybe, I may not have a choice. Fuck this. Have a song, a typed-out poem, a song.





Jl 17 1961

Charles Olson

                   as John Burke

          read the comics

               at the City Council

               table saying

          when you guys have played

          long enough there's no use

          of my wasting my

          time:  brains

          are not to be

               wasted





OH! I don't think he reads this blog since I pissed him off in a comments squabble over Bradley Manning a year or two ago, but Happy Birthday Elric! Hey! he reads your blog, feel free to post the below over there if you want.

Crocking the Way the Unfocused Photographs of Crooked Faces Do that Soil Our Coats

                             
Planet is seeing Yo La Tengo tonight in Ann Arbor (she is safely there - for those of you who tune in for Planet news - the car is good), Earthgirl and I and Hamster and Mr Alarum and Xtina see them a week from tonight at 930, I said last night at Thursday Night Pints., adding, !wOOt! Three more from the same session as above here. No, I don't hate KEXP, I said when K said I thought you hated KEXP after I showed her the above video. It's true, I said, they pissed me off over Beefheart and they play fedora-wearers' shit I don't want to hear, but I don't hate KEXP - El Toro's a Mocomofo ex-pat, we no doubt were at




                      
concerts together without knowing it in the early 80s, Zoom is a bud. We touched on the Brennan hearings, the obsolescence of the tug-of-war trope, of us, twelve-year-old golden retrievers with bad hips who whine at the bottom of steps. I said, drones are a soothing red herring, I mean, is there really anyone who doesn't believe Obama kills people all the time by various other means?

K asked about this shitty blog, I said I've got an idea for a lame-ass Star Trek allusion for my next post, I said I got a very Kind email yesterday morning, thank you very much. I was told I still have the rest of February and 2013 to meet the Proust requirement which would save me hundreds of dollars next year, I paid down the first January 2014 Thursday Night Pint's bill for motherfucking amber NyQuil last night. I mentioned an article on Marianne Moore to L, she's a major fan, the article serendipitously published in yesterday's ::wood s lot:: one day before Elizabeth Bishop's (born 102 years ago today) birthday, Bishop's birthday serendipitous in itself because what I said about X on Exene's birthday is true about Bishop re: the work aging badly to me - I blame me. D, you're missed, feel better. I'm afraid of Americans. This week in war. Fucking Christ, I just saw next week's Villager digital dinner will be SOTU sausage. The Moose. Police state. Idiocies. Pastor Sanctimonious on the holiness of drones. The transparency illusion. Visit to St. Elizabeths. Two ways to be wrong about the internet. Hollywood stars. My current and future hell. Bolano's five tips for short-story writing. Flowers in concrete. Badiou, for those of you who do. Incoming books. Mary Carr, I said when asked by L what I'm reading. Hejinian, Olson, nothing but poetry, I'm incapable of reading prose now. And tablet, asked K. Shit, I said, the fucking blog is tablet. Anthony's links of the week. One Art. Low: see Bishop and X. Feldman's Complete Works for Two Pianos (spotify needed). Apples and oranges. Oranges and Lemons. Stream the new Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds.





SUICIDE OF A MODERATE DICTATOR

Elizabeth Bishop

This is a day when truths will out, perhaps;
leak from the dangling telephone earphones
sapping the festooned switchboards' strength;
fall from the windows, blow from off the sills,
—the vague, slight unremarkable contents
of emptying ash-trays; rub off on our fingers
like ink from the un-proof-read newspapers,
crocking the way the unfocused photographs
of crooked faces do that soil our coats,
our tropical-weight coats, like slapped-at moths.
                  
Today's a day when those who work
are idling. Those who played must work
and hurry, too, to get it done,
with little dignity or none.
The newspapers are sold; the kiosk shutters
crash down. But anyway, in the night
the headlines wrote themselves, see, on the streets
and sidewalks everywhere; a sediment's splashed
even to the first floors of apartment houses.
                    
This is a day that's beautiful as well,
and warm and clear. At seven o'clock I saw
the dogs being walked along the famous beach
as usual, in a shiny gray-green dawn,
leaving their paw prints draining in the wet.
The line of breakers was steady and the pinkish,
segmented rainbow steadily hung above it.
At eight two little boys were flying kites.

Full of the Same Wind

Full on XTC cascade, YAY! sparked by listening to Nonsuch on drive home from Ohio. Full album at bottom of post. Expect LOTS next week or so. A friend asks, Proust? I failed, will be buying amber Nyquil for TNPers all of 2014. Why I wanted a quieter mind is a larger question than why I thought I could achieve one. Another friend asks, Tablet? Maybe. Another friend asks, fucking blooger? YES! If anyone has any suggestions on how to make the Apply to Template button work, I'll buy you amber Nyquil all the rest of 2013 if you can fix it. Links: Police state. Capitalism. Capitalism. Capitalism. Priorities. The myth of justice. The coming collapse. Dirty Wars. Israel's Tuskegee. More here. Police state practice. One year ago. Why aren't you using these apps to track your death?




 
Did you know Washington DC has a professional soccer team?  Writers on writers. I've never heard of Joseph Ceravalo. While I have failed Proust, I have not failed Olson, Maximus works. William Gass discusses Rilke. Everybody knows this is nowhere. On not like Wallace Steven's poetry. Pynchon and Ashbery. Prunella's latest playlist. Mr Alarum provides a Rainer Maria cascade: Rain Your Hand, Viva Anger, Viva Hate, Breakfast of Champions, Contents of Lincoln's Pockets, Make You Mine. FourTEEN. Gubaidulina.





THE SNOW MAN

Wallace Stevens

One must have a mind of winter

To regard the frost and the boughs

Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;

And have been cold a long time

To behold the junipers shagged with ice,

The spruces rough in the distant glitter

Of the January sun; and not to think

Of any misery in the sound of the wind,

In the sound of a few leaves,

Which is the sound of the land

Full of the same wind

That is blowing in the same bare place

For the listener, who listens in the snow,

And, nothing himself, beholds

Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is. 

XTC's Nonsuch, what a great fucking album, listened for the first time in maybe a year between Friendsville all the way downhill to Hancock this past Sunday (and at least three times since, and HOLYFUCK! what an XTC cascade I'm only beginning to indulge, it's medicinal). Peter, above. My Bird Performs. Dear Madam Barnum. Humble Daisy.
    




Holly Up on Poppy. Crocodile. Rook. Omnibus. Not only is that one of my favorite songs in the world, there's an allusion - I insist on believing - to Yvonne Craig in the lyrics. Then She Appeared. War Dance. Wrapped in Grey. The Ugly Underneath. Bungalow.

of the cake and flesh I now have windings of as steep and left-ward twisting as those ice-rock grindings were the giant river ran over and caught where ground itself is a fucking hole

 

First, thanks Edmond for that Stereolab youtube yesterday. I always short-shrift Stereolab here proportional to how much I love Stereolab even though I say so again and again and say I'll post more again and again. One last Giftmas present for you. Yes, today is Alex Chilton's birthday. This week in war. But, but, she's a Democrat. See, I didn't say motherfucking Democrats, though I thought it. The hehhing. Occupy, not dead, just resting? You can play that Python clip in your head, I don't need to post a youtube. Deprogramming progressives. Last on this. Drones. Double standards. Economicide. An anarchist Giftmas. Crossing the painted road. Imperial lockstep. Elizabeth Drew against the neo-cons. I respect Elizabeth Drew, I've always thought her the best of Villagers. While you were Giftmassing. Route 15 toll fizzles. Where Earthgirl grew up. Fuck Sunderland. STAND! or stay home (or at least sit on wussy side). The whole nine yards: a startling development! Bleggalgazing. So you are where now? Anthony's links of the week (and thanks for the Kind words). Until the pouring out of respect at his passing the past two days, I'd never heard of Dennis O'Driscoll. Any of you !!! with his poetry, can recommend a place to start? :: wood s lot ::, as you'd expect, has some. Nicholas Royle? New at the other place. Dye. Hauntology. Literary moist aversion. Twelve soundfiles to mouse over. Holly Herndon? There's Holly Herndon in your future. There's Birchville Cat Motel in your future. Zombie playlist. No more hotdogs. Rust worship. The Stereolab song you hear most.




STAGE FORT PARK

Charles Olson

an ice-plug a wherry where I hid my car a nights a fucking

and they tell me this was a gore under ice where the rocks made a whirlpool

when the land was then depressed below the level

of where the sea now is but the sea was out and here

in the hole of Stage Fort Park forty feet further down and then let up was the bed

of a Merry mac as wide as Massachusetts


                              the earth was down from the weight of the ice upon it

and great beds of water flowing under carried detritus

was my kame and those hollows and the rise

of choke-cherry trees I have eaten my father

piece by piece I love my cannibalism


of the cake and flesh I now have windings of as steep and left-ward twisting

as those ice-rock grindings were

the giant river ran over and caught

where ground itself is a fucking hole

Born 102 Years Ago Today

MAXIMUS TO GLOUCESTER, LETTER 27 [WITHHELD]

Charles Olson

I come back to the geography of it,
the land falling off to the left
where my father shot his scabby golf
and the rest of us played baseball
into the summer darkness until no flies
could be seen and we came home
to our various piazzas where the women
buzzed

To the left the land fell to the city,
is of a tent spread to feed lobsters
to Rexall conventioneers, and my father,
a man for kicks, came out of the tent roaring
with a bread-knife in his teeth to take care of
a druggist they'd told him had made a pass at
my mother, she laughing, so sure, as round
as her face, Hines pink and apple,
under one of those frame hats women then


This, is no bare incoming
of abstract form, this

is no welter or the forms
of those events, this,

Greeks, is the stopping
of the battle

          It is the imposing
of all those antecedent predecessions, the precessions

of me, the generation of those facts
which are my words, it is coming

from all that I no longer am, yet am,
the slow westward motion of

more than I am


There is no strict personal order

for my inheritance.


               No Greek will be able

to discriminate by body.

                    An American

is a complex of occasions,

themselves a geometry

of spatial nature.


          I have this sense,

that I am one

with my skin


               Plus this - plus this:

that forever the geography

which leans in

on me I compel

backwards I compel Gloucester

to yield, to

change

          Polis

is this

It's been 25 years since I read The Maximus Poems. A friend has been badgering me to revisit Olson, especially since I've been posting Black Mountain occasionally the past year; The Library's beaten, pencil-marked and high-lighted copy has been on my desk since last week when I grabbed it from a pile of discharged books; I stumble upon his birthday today; I've giftcards to Amazon in my wallet: 2013 to be  The Year I Reread The Maximus Poems, expect lots of his poems here.


THE CONDITION OF THE LIGHT FROM THE SUN

on ground level
up on top of the world
the Bulgar and his sons
in the eye of ice
over the left shoulder
North North East
on a line extending
directly half way distance
between the left neck
and the ridge above
the road which passes over
the top of the world
constituted of color
divided among them
the Throne the Kingdom the Power