covered with yellow leaves
in morning rain
he threw up his hands
& wrote the Universe dont exist
& died to prove it.
Full Moon over Ozone Park
Airport Bus rushing thru dusk to
Jack the Wizard in his
grave at Lowell
for the first nite—
That Jack thru whose eyes I
smog glory light
gold over Manhattan’s spires
will never see these
anymore over statues of Mary
in the graveyard
Black misted canyons
rising over the bleak
Bright doll-like ads
for Esso Bread—
Replicas multiplying beards
Farewell to the Cross—
Eternal fixity, the big headed
wax painted Buddha doll
pale resting incoffined—
Wax dolls walking park
Light gleam in eye glass
Voice echoing thru Microphones
Grand Central Sailor’s
arrival 2 decades later…
Nostalgia for Innocent World
A million corpses running
across 42nd street
Glass buildings rising higher
artificial trees, robot sofas,
One Way Street to Heaven.
Gray Subway Roar
A wrinkled brown faced fellow
with swollen hands
Leans to the blinking plate glass
mirroring white poles, the heavy car
sways on tracks uptown to Columbia—
Jack no more’ll step off at Penn Station
anonymous erranded, eat sandwich
& drink beer near New Yorker Hotel or walk,
under the shadow of Empire State.
Didn’t we stare at each other length of the car
& read headlines in faces thru Newspaper Holes?
Sexual cocked & horny bodied young, look
at beauteous Rimbaud & Sweet Jenny
riding to class from Columbus Circle.
“Here the kindly dopefiend lived.”
and the rednecked sheriff beat the longhaired
boy on the ass.
—103d street Broadway, me & Hal abused for sidewalk
begging twenty-five years ago.
Can I go back in time & lay my head on a teenage
belly upstairs on 110th Street?
or step off the iron car with Jack
at blue-tiled Columbia sign?
at last the old brown station where I had
a holy vision’s been rebuilt, clean ceramic
over the scum & spit & come of quarter century.
Flying to Maine in a trail of black smoke
Kerouac’s obituary conserves Time’s
Empire State in Heaven Sun Set Red,
White mist in old October
over the billion trees of Bronx—
There’s too much to see—
Jack saw sun set red over Hudson horizon
Two three decades back
thirtynine fourtynine fiftynine
John Holmes pursed his lips,
Smoke plumed up from Oceanside chimneys
plane roars toward Montauk
stretched in red sunset—
Northport, in the trees, Jack drank
rot gut & made haikus of birds
tweetling on his porch rail at dawn—
Fell down & saw Death’s golden lite
in Florida garden a decade ago.
Now taken utterly, soul upward,
& body down in wood coffin
& concrete slab-box.
I threw a kissed handful of damp earth
down on the stone lid
looking in Creeley’s one eye,
Peter sweet holding a flower
Gregory toothless bending his
knuckle to Cinema machine—
and that’s the end of the drabble tongued
Poet who sounded his Knock-up
throughout the Northwest Passage.
Blue dusk over Saybrook, Holmes
sits down to dine Victorian—
& Time has a ten-page spread on
Well, while I’m here I’ll
do the work—
and what’s the Work?
To ease the pain of the living.
Everything else, drunken
October 22-29, 1969