Billy Blakespirit, call 'cross the waves!
Say we are fragments, constitutional slaves,
stuck on the Cyclone, discarding the fried
frog's legs we've tried for the first time
on the boardwalk where people fish into the fog
and we've thrown round a golfball like dogs
till it falls in the tide and (can these even float?)
gone towards your grave, our leisure-wrought boat,
towards what new thoughts from an old London to hatch,
or that you etched mountains of cloudwords to catch,
(in the end, poor and waiting) what remains,
like a coffee-tin after a bomb drops, the rain,
like a sleeping white rollercoaster on an empire's shore,
locks stiff, between two black lines, and the starry floor.
"...don’t let that subway car crash into Coney Island..."
It is interesting to contemplate an entangled bank, clothed with many plants of many kinds, with birds singing on the bushes, with various insects flitting about, and with worms crawling through the damp earth, and to reflect that these elaborately constructed forms, so different from each other, and dependent on each other in so complex a manner, have all been produced by laws acting around us. These laws, taken in the largest sense, being Growth with Reproduction; inheritance which is almost implied by reproduction; Variability from the indirect and direct action of the external conditions of life, and from use and disuse; a Ratio of Increase so high as to lead to a Struggle for Life, and as a consequence to Natural Selection, entailing Divergence of Character and the Extinction of less-improved forms. Thus, from the war of nature, from famine and death, the most exalted object which we are capable of conceiving, namely, the production of the higher animals, directly follows. There is grandeur in this view of life, with its several powers, having been originally breathed into a few forms or into one; and that, whilst this planet has gone cycling on according to the fixed law of gravity, from so simple a beginning endless forms most beautiful and most wonderful have been, and are being, evolved. --Charles Darwin, ORIGIN OF THE SPECIES (Conclusion)
I dream of a clipper ship
Gold on blue THE CHASEY ALICE
Until he'd seen which Captain You said
He'd seen nothing.
--Alice Notley
...Leo Humphrey... Benjamin Franklin Newton ....
A Tale of Early Times...Over the River and Through the Woods... Letters from New York...
What those who wish to improve... can never accept is the... streak of anarchy etched deep in the soul...
Already by the 1820s, New Yorkers were driving their carriages out to Coney across the old Shell Road, desperate to escape the smoldering heat of the city. They built bonfires on the beach at night and danced around them, slipping the traces of Victorian propriety.
When Trump caught wind of a rumor that the grand old lady of Coney...
http://spacetimes.wikispaces.com/Info
http://www.villagevoice.com/content/printVersion/1828350
The tribute to Master, the Whompa! Man (given name: Genaoro Venegas Rivera) climaxes with a brief display of his portrait painted on Ruby's metal shutter—the most truthful artist's rendering that has been drawn down at Coney Island for a long, long time. Ruby's house band—a guitar, a pair of bongo drums, and three women backup singers—breaks into a new number, a simple song with the chorus repeated over and over: "We love Coney Island! We love Coney Island!"
Poem
"How it all fits together." A poem
you have not written yet. This attempt.
The way the digits grow
older and morph
into morning. Small again but just as green
(overhanging the speckled black
galaxies of gum on the granite).
The trembling feeling beholding
a beauty with golden red hair
across the blackrust ravine
of the subway tunnel, waiting
on the west-facing cliff.
"I will wait for you
'long side the ocean."
No point in repeating the Greek
myths -- in yet another
apprenticeship of a Romantic-
tongued poet -- on that dusty
oft-trod road (though rich, oftentimes, I must
admit, a bit stale)
when after all
the Greeks are a part
of a much larger schemata
--Sumerian/Asian/African
memories -- sifted,
buried, rewoven,
: the one girl
on the lonely shore!
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