From a Boundless Bed

The patterns of reality
Blessed by incredulity;
The worms of doubt,
The axes and grout,
Whereby we sing on the open sea;

The miner and the lumberjack,
The farmer with his empty sack,
The papers of news,
The evenin' blues,
Give birth betimes to a Happy Jack.

The town is dark, the lamps are dim,
The shadows on the houses swim;
We cling to boards,
Our family hoards,
Like birds adrift on silly limbs.

If all is as it's supposed to be,
The patterns of reality,
We still don't know,
These songs we sow,
Blessed by incredulity.

Poem

...one just wants more and more of them doesn't one

just want more and more of them

flavors and tones... No such thing

as satisfaction, 'cept in the idea

of having satisfied

an idea;

but there's no method of curing the longing

--- a feeling of being

from the womb

untimely ripped!

-- that you feel when you leave

the subway

car, visited

by a city madonna

in a short black

dress with her long

white legs

and her short sharp nose

and her full smooth cheeks

framing blue eyes

framed by black hair

that flows down her dress

with her round white tits

and over her purse,

made of leather and gold

--and as you step

to the platform

with one last look

of lost longing

you take

in the mind of your loins

and the loins of your mind

her smile, a memory,

Eurydice's

flying away

telling the poet

he will never know

that he never could not
have looked back

behind, even in the bright

air above, making a clean

break with his love,

having climbed the last

steps back to daylight,

with her in his arms,

yes, even then, that

hell of desire

would only increase

and he'd take her to a dark

corner of the street

to ravish her there.