1.

cold— the frozen 

bloodless lay.                              

                                           

bled-out

upon the prison grey.

                         

five-                                                    

hundred rifles 

to the fray who storm                                                                   

relentlessly.

order—                                         

loud its restless call—  requiem                                    

chorus                                        

sounds the wall.

cold—

the still, the bloodless                                        

fall.

its order 

done.

                    for Nelson

-the blonde and geo-relevance-

1.

She can't wake-up in the morning.

She waits the post-dinner shift in a restaurant 

Which bears the name of one once accused, 

But acquitted of matricide-

Patricide. But when the noon-sun springs, 

And her hand begins its quiet sweep across her hair,

That gold——

She is everything living 

As living should most clearly 

Define itself.

When questioned, she tells me my poems are vague,

And I sometimes agree. But—

She radiates blood to the vacuum-

Side of morning's brain like a deep, red- 

Shifter.

2.

It's that time of year when the cat hangs-out

At the base of the refrigerator,

Curled-up from the cold in the warmth of its motor.

That cat——

Once buried to its pink in the quick- 

Snow's drift,

Who ignored the calls of her kissing-

Sound lips—— Those lips,

That cat,

Whose awareness of life extended 

Only as far as the breath now breathed, 

Its history of life. But then——

Across the light of a noontime sun her hand 

Brushed back that gold...

And if you live in the West, in the South,

Immersed in the permanent dryness of heat—— 

In New Mexico, in Phoenix or San Diego,

You won't understand the habits of our poets,
Or our cats——

Of our killers

Or our women.

                               Fall River / 1978 / 2007

-in the 16th century briefly-

As evening defined its heart's failure to run

As once sweet waters dried earth-

Red like cold terra 

Cotta—

Once observer's Phaidon Renaissance  

Locked within two frozen

Hands—

Its glossy

Page absorber strikes to set in chiseled

Stone——

The tomb

The icy

Gates to the dead

Lorenzo.

                               Wellston notebooks

                             

-resumé-

1.

only the strongest

will can challenge this atmosphere—

that substance-filled night of terrible              

blades

who cut the moon to half its

shape—   

shape of the heart who beat upon 

that bed whose base was demon-

filled.

now i choose those roots,

seedlings of the sum-

total of myself.

to weave a quiet water

the substance is recurring.

2.

stars of the dipper 

bend its shape.

stones as old as pharaoh roll

beneath our feet.

-I've dreamed-

1.

I've dreamed of water

And of deserts—

Of death's cold angel 

And life's possibilities.

Once active

Once passive 

Once hunted

Once found 

I've walked on water 

Mimic of the Nazarene

Then fell like stone to a bottomless 

Space.

I've dreamed in winter of burning 

Aldebaran.

2.

Once in the city of Kansas City

Hieronymus crept beneath my sheets

Soaked in sweat, 

Holding me close in his terrible 

Arms.

3.

I've dreamed of all these things 

And then

I've dreamed of water

And of deserts.

                                  from the house of

                                 Tom and Marlee Joyce,
                                 Kansas City, Missouri  / c.1969