the tun nels

! I. Thoughts of a Man Shoveling it. Broad as the day here is gives to this diction of wonder and snow. It is through this calm thing in buckets I guess that image-as-such of the drift, might find relief, in the seeing of the drift, in my head, at the moment naught but for my head's picture to cherish as realest, unreal, though I remember the child I was, that cast his arms forcibly into an angel for the sleek mass covering it in feet of that wideness, once, well, millions, millions of small tokens of what would never be again---snowflakes, either one---dashing, bobbing, falling, disintegrating, hit the ground, a first battalion. Mostly this, yet in peace, a quiet---fortitude---of them, all these white differences hitting the ground, shedding out the sky's torpor into a persistent sea that I remember, in snows, snows upon this haze, making a haze, and a making of movement to settle on the buildings, on the streets, settling on the haze ..... Of mind, down In the drift, the melody of the drift, the nice void there In the spread throughout, and from the sky twirling. This, a chance to breathe, what thickets! There! In the white haze on the broad top Of buildings, throughout once I felt The haze of mine own head. Follow The old friends, follow these dashing Phenomena, friend, back and forth like Their own unearthly: into no winter But one for the breath of snows, into Thems---haha!---white shifty flakes There dashing like breathers. Happy friends, happy Enough, happy enough in lamenting, No snow today. But the image works throughout

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! This narrow mind, speaks its broad statement In thems, false flakes, thems wonders, Thems beliefs in the shrug of that winter Freshening, no winter of the mind, no season To capsule, it is all of a season, a season Of the self in the drift, the snows in the head, The head quite caught in the flurry Of snowy flakes, in their brief uniquity, to fail On the curb once touched, broad ones out ...... Into the snigger of some trellis, Layering the nice backyard-square, Thumbs on the world to make us. Not ever Though, to cozen the fury, merely display The fury in serenity, wideness of its answer, Thems snows in each Flake, in each the latitude, The complement to aether, the relief, The snows. . . .. . . . . . . . .. . .. . . .

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II. The Cloud in My Hands. Imagery the imagination persuades itself to load on with care Each furious goddamn load of things, on the wheels, wheeling Vegetables: to browbeat a thought the way into fury, enough To drop a foot in front of wheeling workers: too beautiful, too Spacious, each beacon a pendentive-sway in this the illWrought heat of knowing the graffiti in stalls: exhaust pipes The piss out of buckets for me to hold my breath at: for this I persuade indecency and a bald face, a welcome hinge on

! This gimmick of hades: to wade far off or glue bleating a limn Or two in the force way out the sides of the unsatisfactory the Carnival of clean space in the digits: this grid of self: and, Split in the way, a spit stomped on by another to stick: this One of ghosts is in the tides of no other but marvel, just that, Just a woe in the wonderful seen wonderfuller, better, madly-In the love of its catch, the messengers, the bleak post of Diction: it is said the cagier for its love and equivalent hate, the Snares of its possibility, into those primed flowers not for picking But in the tropes, no vindication: but in this, blameless, a transitory Guy: just unfold, then, see the spectrum rise indiscriminately, This, imagery-to-beauty, fled from there, goes kicking in spaces Only to become flowers: on RIVERSIDE, the block a beat to run On in gaiety towards this kitchen of dirge: and you might get honesty But not control in this result . but there is also a point where The streets gut to the speaking of patrol cars, delivery trucks, Thankfulness in a sign for lunch . out of moles there in the Areas between shuffling dogs on leashes, bikes riding, lost In a soundless traipsing with owners . and if once winter Booms forth the chasm decides it's through with being done With, and the subways begin to scoff, the people pacing, almost, To pinpoint the soul's litigation in the first snap judgment: well: All's arguments . no law there but in the form of a benediction, In the form: in justice done to one's bond with themself; nothing But a control over the diction I rouse too much of for the sake Of respectful sakes, the sainted pages here no such nonsense, No such follow-through, nothing, through with it, and the res in This, exclusion of the clip of one through lagging traffic to catch A cabbie: he's there, depth in the tired, tired of depth, soul's Enough of it, no soul in his car, the one he drives his soul

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! With: beep, beep, the peeping down the sun gives us says:

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Elusiveness . . . .. . . . . . . . .. . III. N.Y.C. Imagery too beautiful persuades indecency, and you might Get honesty but not control. But there is also a point where The chasm decides it's through with being done with, and The subways begin to scoff. Pacing, almost to the point of A soul's litigation. No law there; nothing but a control over The diction I rouse too much of for the sake of respectful Elusiveness. And moreover the diction is a translation, has Been, of the inspired imagery I have found always, In New York. That I know for certain. The only name I've Ever had, a figurative godhead in it, the disembodiment Is a threat that to me is an ultimate allure. For who 'I' Is I'll leave to Wittgenstein to murder with his languageGames. One who sees no image but a general persistence Of one---is the elect image. No nausea in this, I never Know what I speak of, with time the reason presents itself To me, in a value, though, that I now no longer even attribute to A general swirl of feelings in a vagary, a dream I had once, About the sublime. But no feelings there; no one knows, When they disrespect the sublime. I gave my penitence To the reading of writers, once the pains of my untruths .. . . .

! Were too plain. It was all a tunnel. It was all just a tunnel In vision, a narrow pass, a chord to harp on in many ways, Not the distance. Hunger too much, and one finds he Does not handle what should have been practically insatiable. But there is no harm in it: in the subways: it's in the detritus, The whelm of the current, the tracks sparking: the release OR wires of release: the chasm much simpler, just as depthy: Because home is in home: a home so wide it refuses Explanation: in a man's death, in the death of a friend, I saw His cancer, I took it for myself in the morphine, years ago: But no hideousness. It's humanity, it's the current of wires And spoken tremolo. New York is a matter of refusals, Come-hithers and diversions of what wants approach, what Blindness! And in the blindness of the diction I see in others, My neighbors, my New York, I find something beyond Enlightening. This place should needs be the godhead, yo, It has to. It has to remind me at times that I have given to Insignificance, and love it, care not about perceptions Except those of a philosophical sort. This anomaly is the Existentialism, though. It's the praise of an ability to think-In the face of ill trivia, language-games,---moreover The ability to give weight to ideas, because one does not Worry of scrutiny in the sea of this nature, this lush, this Brown collapsible my eyes curse with blinks, this trash, This lonely void has been a stranger-void, and succumbs To the mores that generally institute in one who has

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! Finally relented to what he must give up in the description: No pronouns: that's anonymous: to not even care about Who you are referring to because it is a thing: it is this Giant cathedral, this strange, this New York, this living Out of paradox and chiefest orotund. This writer Has finally relented to the idea that an epic stance could Ever for a poet be found in where he has grown up. Who's To say of the validity? Certainly, Beckett. He knew: he Knew the female shadow of his inspiration, lying there, In his inspiration, to me, what I read at the birth of a Man out of lovelies dispersed, gone, done away into The tunnel of his travels, the murderous loudness, The champions of self championed in their withering Friend. Anyone who reads him first, truly, and in the Pangs, the delusive ones, find A raving in that boom-boom-boom, the flutter of Music in the heart, yo: But who am I, besides RIMBAUD To Brussels: not one to put his 'self' in quotations, When at war, yes, I assume: the New York I know is in asking questions, The freedom thereof to pursue My lacking doom. No praise for one, No channeling but the tunnels, The tunnels, They go down 42: I used to go to Franklin to chill With a friend of mine, whose father was in suffering, . . . no sin worse but in denial of the fact,

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I am going to hell. Might as well relish this apocalypse In the grand soul-fuck-its: I do love my bogies But here's the thing, no fucking 'wit' this time, Just say on, just say it on to the masses I see In my mind's eye: recount a story of yourself: What do you see: a mirror, disgust, lament as Anything more than a poetic trope?: a mask: Has it ever only been a tribute to New York: I love that name, the lingo the same as poetry To me always, no mask, yet still I see nothing: Thankfully, myself. and I do not love my own, Would rather love that one, would rather seem In the seeming to honor the circuits-quick of A welter enough, good enuff, just to pry, because, I cannot pry into others' lives: the lives of others: I can't: all the others in me: and all the me myselfs, And whitman my beauty that is beautiful, manahatta, Place of brooklyn ferry, honest girl in white, a passing, A solution: a mite or pang---of---something---in the Depth of refusal: a worried thing, a demesne I cannot Sense or else too much of myself would be exposed In view of the home that is a true home to me, my ---ugh---birthplace: I see little in the berth ive created, No nothing better, feel it more, cannot think I could Ever relate to this immense personality, this NEW YORK: This chimera: this apocalypse: this revelry in the chains

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OF smog: this a more transient place is better to telltale: So why go on? why perceive anything? why is it that A person's person to them is not them? Why is it that I cannot honestly speak my own story, the only one I havent told: erudition is my specialty: it is my soul, soul-Dyslexia an evil: this needs more of a milage in Honesty: but no time exists long enough for dan to feel Honest, he forgets, he forgets what he said that was, Never on purpose: goldfish-status: I'll leave what I see In this place, this wonder, for later, and not waste my jesus But now it comes: there's a shaft disintegrating Tunnels with floods: there's a beacon out there In bullshit Jersey: there's a sense in the meaning That is beyond sense: and no definition is frank, Potency is: the finagled missives, the miseres And begging loonies, the nuns in the honies, The monied douchebags, the curl of a head Towards what I'd go gay for: NEw York: New disintegration: if what all is is not what All of it is, how can all of it perceive itself As a simplicity?: Rumbles, the darkened Cleft, just for rats: and all this jive, this faux, This metaphysic: nausea, but in the memorandum, The fact I did not know all along, so I could do city-god justice: So I could tame the wheels, perhaps, feel the hermetic,

! The burrowing of spiel to spiel, like subways in The diagram: circulatory system: the direction we Go here is towards our jobs: but what of when the Job is to keep on with the circuit, feel the circuit, Feel it too amazing, put it out of mind, become Clueless: New York is just for me for everyone: It's everyone's just for me: it's the adumbrated Spiel-as-carnage, gets us all about ourselves: An uncaring based in caring, anyway, An uncaring: beautifully-don't-give-fucks I see All over the place: any borough, any stationed Lapse for twelve minutes, any collapse, any running Of the motors in freedom: but one should give props For the lack of knowledge, as to an experience of Alienation in reality quite helpful, if you relate it To your home: beautiful negation, that: where I sleep I hate, mainly: going for walks in public is my solitude To prove the soul: and if a smirk comes across as a wink I should but think that a furious mutuality, beforehand Too powerful to truly perceive: my neighborhood is A cerebellum: an intoxication of noise: an intoxication, A relief: a span records thus from what little relief is Found in home, the value tremendous if one is homeless: I just went for a walk and said a word or two to the void, My neighbors, as they passed: they responded in kind with A wealth of thank-yous in their own language: the lunatic

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! On the other hand will use this game too much and begin Harping to no one about satan for long periods of time, And it is then that what was meant to be subtle becomes A crude-crazy, for one who cannot take the language: No problem: I would've been like that anyway: fuck it: At least my sanity will always be questioned: a wonderful, Beautifully ugly veil: reassurance wrought forcibly is too Much for most: me too: but it's not a commonplace thing To want friends, who can pat you on the back: everyone Who is clinically insane is insane in the same way: basically It's just a form of mental retardation: if I was clearly insane, I would not be able to write this: but imagine me speaking It out in front of the cathedral near my house, where all The homeless chaps live: maybe if I was reading from a Piece of paper it'd be one thing but if I was just spouting This it would seem much the crazier: those guys on The stoop who have made New York their home are all Prophets who have given up their balance for the sake Of speaking the soul of this place: the only difference is, I have a blog: and time to think it over: the verbiage Is done with, I'll just say, naught here but in an appreciation Of my own satan, my own mindfucks out of the way as An eke-thru: Human life, what, this place?: who's got it?: Nobody yo: I suppose I confused it with a Religion of sorts: a religious God is scary

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! As fuck, puts all in his categories: GOD. In home doesn't need categories, is fine With whatever ones you choose to instate: Ugliness, beautiful: and all the grit of no Cliche but the truth: in that, via some trite negation Or irony, simply put, it becomes a few strands of Wheat out the tire: grit your teeth to the beautiful, The barren: whiplash: the taste of being: the being, A taste of self: and all the narrow passages I have wended prove not to be but towards This, towards no explanation: towards an Explanation, towards the gummy sidewalk, No streets, just atoms: no atoms, no formidable But in the words of this air I breathe walking Down them, no hamster-cage no blank deception And no relief, most of all: there is the soul: In insatiability, despite a few lines: but will I will this no further?: can anything of what Mr. Crane has taught me profligate be in A screech of tires: tiers of chants, layers Of music perfect in placement and abandon: Water for the soul in a dropped honk, a Minuscule but-peep, saying I should turn The corner for one end to the voyage: a Caricature, a source of lucid frankness in The ugly masochism of relenting, as if one

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! Were relieving potency: who does that, who-Unless they would want to be stripped in the Eyes of this lord: truth in mentioning as an Outsider the vacuum of this god's thumb drums Matter out of whitened black snoozes, dreams, Concrete, an open mind, abstract, a wizening Too soon for youth: New York blazes its past In a faculty unknown to the highest prick: of An ear: of a fear in similitude: we all wonder, Why would anyone want to be like us: the best Friends are strangers, to me, the camaraderie There a depth I feel utmost: a truth beyond, In getting all this wealth for free, simply in

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Having my own prairies: my own delinquents, Manics-juxtaposing-forms, manifold representations Of this head: What symphony is this? Take your medicine, Dude: it's guilt: it's the guilt of knowing this Not for so long, only having an inkling of it: Only a phantasm: I guess I knew mostly the Cordiality, without the blessings of the unity Of entering a brief knowing look: beyond that there Is indeed a pulse throbbing to harness this respect: The only way, the only way I could rouse the GOD. In this place to life: only way: so do it: do it well, Do it for others, live the soul of this place, see

! It in a clarity: a wistful dose, a companion In all peoples: unity is not faith in the GOD.less But lessness in feeling fated to speak it all: speak it In tones, dialtones, a dangling receiver on 69th, calling for a ride in the rain: and from Thence to home, before, cheered on by Pedestrians: read some poetry on my baggage On the streetcorner, seemed to sync up with The vibe tailing straight out of masochism, But no overt influence but in the loveliness Of the unkempt: That, really, I only knew how to see, in negation, The negation of a soul's breath taken haughty In front of the cathedral: a wellspring, hope, A dearth, the anxiety of codes from bypassers, Thinking no one speculates nor relates: all peeps Here do: New York: a place of understanding, Silent, mutual, never spoken: an allegiance, A game of prayer and relief from the game At home: a hovel, a big apartment, whatever: The best home is this natural urban landscape: Faith: in the surge of all tears down the pipe: A summoning is involved, a fear I will not Do my home justice: so speak honestly, Speak for all us, do not feel the martyrSystem: realize what must be done: to

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! Portray this amazement in imagery: to see It as a painting, made up of impressions, Caricatures, ghosts: everyone whispers Under their breath: what you choose to hear Is the vibe: all the things have been buildings: Reaching what but that's found in accusation, Or the relief of someone letting you know they Hear you, and this---for years: towards the plain Wonder, towards the faith in the wonder, Towards wonder at large: that's the force In the pendulum: that's the cacophony, That's the source of this conundrum, that's The faith: peeps raw: peeps dead, burning with Tears too hungry to spew: but I like my soldiers, All I got is smokes: But now I have love, again Confidence in the rhetoric of NEW YORK: drops, The beat will, the dropping rain like a blast Over the chasm of various skies: various hinted Wellsprings, various dirigibles of motion, Emotion the agonist: but how is it that a Loose control---like I used to---how can that Be anything: personages walking along, Tell them, tell them to walk along the brick: Tell them unknowingly: you can speak yourself To yourself: you can light up the poetry of This place: perhaps I just need a brief outline,

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! Now: the way one sketches a coronation Out of blueprints: and maybe the sensitive trappings Out from the ill light linger in some morse code: Some charity towards the wealth of people at large: The wealth of everyone: Whatever-self: as their Head would put it contrives naught out of speaking Their lingo: their own comfort of personal Knowledge, of commune: and no space here, No space but my own lingo, the lover my own, The lingo my own: no charity, no case of it, No it in the GOD. of here: it's in the haze of The skies I look up at to avoid perhaps a shapely Ass, which I find more intriguing anyway: the Skies, that is: no mask, no smog, only the high, Only the greatest walk ever, only the laughter, Only the system of speaking, only the deign of What is new that's been around for some time: . . .. . . . . . . . .. . .. . . .

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IV. PNEUMONIA STRAIN. It was here, wasnt it? I mean, it was This place gave us love, right? The World Has always remained vengeful To be wild again, to dance again; return to some deepness too deep for tears To ignore bloodiest sleeve. Old people know about it. People grow old, As always, as they always will: find themselves Farther into the old, odd psyche of two points, The old and the really old work: Of course, it all Started from some elemental purity, of course: but what became of us