the point
don’t be ambitious just do something you
are this calm person travelled you are this person
travelled by the grey rain cutting, you want
the blades of this rain cutting you, your left eye
pulses you are the servant of the pulse in your eye
you hold too tight to looking for what makes you move
when you walk when you eat your chicken-roll on rye
you are this person who walks and eats, flashing
from emptiness, no one
abandons you, there is no one
to abandon, you are simply this walker eating this eater
walking, one flash after another, the shoulders
shiver with awareness-pain, the hoarse throat
darkens, you forget your breathing which you had been,
every second you are at the point of death, can you imagine
stove or precipice or field of instantly killing mushrooms
but that’s lust for a certification, where
is the ochre the brown world the comfort-giver, the securer
of breast and belly warmth? the beautiful lesson of Everything
Changes flashes in and out of nothingness
do you do your practice or do you find your practice
by discovering again every day how you walk, the
particular pressure on the right leg the rolling
of fear in the assertive swath you cannot
be abandoned there is no other life
to lust after can you imagine
the power of yourself center of the world, all
coming to you through your earned
emptiness? the blades of this rain
have nothing to pierce, you are this restfulness
of the constantly shifting water-body
blood
although this love appears as fresh water never there’s
never been a drop of water never a drop
of water in it. but this blood, which transforms
the five poisons into the five knowledges, this blood
of great passion, passionless, free of passion,
this secret great blood, free of clinging. . . this blood
does not hanker after appearance, there’s no giving, not any giving’s
possible? the hungry ghost lusts for appearance, although
a hungry ghost appears as life-sap it wounds the space
as the secret great blood does not. is this true? this
I hate you draws a line, any authentic life
without a drawn line? no.
attack, fortification, self-gift, you/me, only this way, harshest giving birth
not that there’s no field for the giving, but the asking. . . the pus
tissues, neurone paths, body clamps, terror-heart heat firetongs,
sick old noble patience of understanding, compassion compassion
self-lies about ego-loss, noble noble noble
although the asking within the giving’s infolded it is true
it must wound the space as it draws a line?
‘ if a man is not ready to face toil and risk
and in all gaiety of heart
his body will grow unshapely and his heart
lack the wild will that stirs desire.’ or, ‘we poets
begin in joy and gladness and descend therefrom
into despondency and madness.’ or or or or or or.
or motto or proverb in the left rear pocket wallet or apothegm or or. dive
into your throat red thorough red be that red am I ready
to accept my throat as that throat
ready to accept me? all desire is shapely
when you see yourself as a god, when all your speech
is mantra, shapely viscous red lined cording throat.
to accept you as this person accepting herself, that’s
the drawn line? red throat body chording. the secret
great blood turns the beautiful goddess body into
vibration, rainbow body, the school.
‘a setting up in the unconcealed’ (Heidegger)
‘all works have this thingly character, what would they be without it?’ care for what you find, milk, wave, fluid air swim by Judith Weaver in Boulder doing Tai Chi forms, blue streams of hunger and desperation from my body, sad wine of sadness at giving up sadness, the peritonitis fear of giving up fear, my dog-whistle-pitch-scream unassimilable by my body learning to be body, in the body the field of desperation engenders the fruitful, so each day its own care? each day its own care. sorge sorge sorge sorge, this poem-thing being poemed, can I 1975 be wisdom-poetry? I can. ‘to act compassionately is not to be overwhelmed by an emotion, but is always to act feelingly and knowingly.’ fill me I moan in the morning suck me cries the nightly aloneness but the compassionate pirate stalks in his course which is his end.
by care,
the merit of the world, turn
the prose to singing, no holy whirlwind no
jubilee trumpet no blessed
gesture, but gesture shearing its own
possible names by the quick sword of its act
in the kitchen, let the holy blessed
whirlwind within the wind wither away and the ground
ground me, what I know I know in the vein
and the tendon, my other voices scare me I
let them my other voices
scare me I let them beautiful enemies my
lovers, high language again.
a move-
ment dizzying motion nau-
sea seizure by verb radiant work
radiate act in the work act the work
see now seize the thing reveal in the
working in the working re-
turn within the work to heart and lymph was going to look for you
in the cafeteria Margaret said, was going to look! o
language, darks of pastnesses in the tensions
of intentionality, was it hard? it pained? had it waited, this work,
on body decision, sorge, sorge, the unconcealment, to dis-
close? ask me I ask me me the endless stills
in the drunken mind ask
pardon, pardon me Margaret that I that is I say now
sudden heartfall knowledge you’d angered me it’s me
could not tell you. bodhisattva bodhisattva I dream of you how
lock act and perception? me thingly or
me verbly bla bla, no, ‘it,’ the ‘us’ of the dark
sky of situation seizes in to-be-aware.
‘had I left these images hidden
in the emotions, I might have been torn
to pieces by them/ dejection, sick of these
lessons will I never be quit
of these learnings not decent moral
gift sick charity but energy, ‘to energy,’ be the bad guy.
stomach pain of lies about letting my voices.
sick should should ought must sick ought should.
red heart works being poem white lymph
courses to river unconcealment.