Wouldn't it be nice

reading ecritures bleus--somebody ate her wheaties. a grand exploration via parting and nevermind the graham crackers. free verse? what free verse?
with man: the rhythm, the rebel, lowering the Level: to breath(e)--that's where it's at--for the moment. object. object. object. placing it under cover; covering it with words; lathering words into phrases; clauses; lines; aging; expiring.

you call them lines. Eye-liner. Mascara.
Lip sticks. I call them cover.

I call them breaks.
And one,
two three,
four five
six, seven
eight nine,

the party;
you know, the one
and the many

lecture;
fixture;
golden hurricanes.

Berrigan says write three poems a day.
Even if they aren't good; says
they aren't going
to be good. Or, poems are
good or bad,
and still poems are poems.
Wouldn't (be good)
if they tried,
but we aren't trying.
We're writing.

Then there's always the Dee Vista's.
Promote plateaus or sinkholes?

There are an awful many parking lots
with nothing underneath to support
Spring and All.

I am going home to wander.

Assignments or
signs meant?
Do you remember all antennae
poking up the landscape from
right angles to nothing?

Where does my wall meet my ceiling?
Northwest,
on the street, water
spicket and crab apple.

--that's a hook, hook for a plant. and that's the truth in there.



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And I am going to dig up my Stevens this weekend and wriggle into Corey's conversation. Nice Nice, of course.
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