trenton poems [cont. 2]

home being
anterior picks
up the numbness
the imagination
guesses
at the heat
which
makes up moving
the skin
which is felt
which is higher
a complete light
and lock
of standing
imagination
time, money,
love even,
a feast of goodnights
to swallow
engulfs home

home, the
artist has
his sympathies

she is my every
eye
from which I
find the origin of
this love,
where we are

where we sing,
a gifted catalogue
of people of
all kinds.

a vacation from
the love of
animals --
til death
til it is more
than the mass of
blank release

we go hey!

in the night

when at home

thrusts of feet

dark socks weep

fastens the soul
of waves
of electricity

---

where is this
eternity coming
from and thru
1, 2, 3,
on a spool of stars
a swirling digital
vibration
that finds us
living in another
transparent
car

a beautiful
lover, where
you find days

lets days go
by, into the
overtopping coral
where is my cutting
this is the
moral of growing
underground,
sounds like blue
and sounds like
the same
untamed

across a lot
elsewhere, maybe,
or even,
some fair to
touch, to brush
back,
dissolves at the bottom
with sleep and
lamplight

into the soundscape
it

---

under the stare
the peace is
unnerving, at
the same life-
-time --
a beautiful
house

a long dark road,
a paycheck at
the end of
it -- where the
water goes --
goes green
bald dreams
culminating
into rocks and
ferns, like
dinosaurs of
ancient --

---

to what is the same,
man, keep
moving on,
it is the same
here as
is there
every moment we sit
and die
death! isn't after
us --
I used to drown
and still haven't
learned to tread
water --
I am supple
this way
skin and joints
and flowery
head
it crashes!!

---

house, darkness, house
light, trail, rail,
comes in a spade
is efflorescent

here we go w/ the
smallest sacrifice,
it doesn't
worry much
about control --

volcanic feelings
take us for a ride,
and is
untranslatable
for the most

closeness through
my heart
no men is like
or right--

w/ nothing better
and it will --
oh yes --
the machines come
full circle
w/ senses that
"frees" over --

I cannot hear the
startling looks,
why? what do
I need?
what do I take?
that isn't the
stuff of
life?
because I try
I try to be
"like" life
as WCW

---

he hoards, almost,
the soil,
the girlfriends,
as we
grow waiting old
and
"stop making
sense"

nothing is better
than trying
upon exp.

a work of art
which I draw from
I draw from a do-zen
times and cannot
die--

cannot be crazy
and loose,
man, gimme
the hook

succumbing to the
products of
America--
That's when
Tacony
arrives.

---

I was so young I
distinctly
remember
the effect of
a nude woman
dressed in ink.

I was so pure effect
and for reason I
succumbed to poetry,
it was not a
difficult condition,
nor choice,

nor a mass of
lecture data,
a shape of a
casual animal

I was so distinctly
young I came
back to
write my experience

I was so upset, then,
the imagination
was the pure force
in fact, lost,
and

grow, itself a comet.

There is a [undecipherable]
in life that
is so sharp,

a knife, almost!
that outs as
tragedy, a hole
in us,
mind it,
a pleasant
stance