Song Two

Oh to be an 'upside-down' snowman.

I saw one on the news.

Years on television,

Often asked if I miss it. --- I do.

There was a time, 1981, when

I sat above the main studio at KTVY now KFOR

in Oklahoma City

---a special viewing room, where TV shows could

be observed in person, but from a glassed-in perch.

Alone, in the dark - looking down.

-I imagined it back in the ‘50s!

Oh that day, above - in the perch, I felt such power

(my youth).

So lucky to have a job. So lucky to have a skill.

Almost had to pinch myself.

-----

This is a man who loves life.

This is a man who will fight to stay alive.

This is no last stand.

This is a man who lives in grace.

Forward.

with small, bold steps.

..I’m so grateful for the snow, in case I fall.

..because --often-- I do.

(I will walk on Carl Sandburg's "cat feet.")

-----

Song Three

Mistah Kurtz - he dead

• T.S. Eliot, “The Hollow Men,” borrowed from
• Joseph Conrad “Heart of Darkness”

Snow dog and I walked the icy asphalt.

Scary for an Old Guy. The Old Guy with a trick leg.

Arriving in the white park -- we heard the muffled snow.

singing,

-- Angels from the realms of Glory.

Further now, still singing

still beckoning. The Old Guy knows the Angel voices.

Yes. One note. And All the notes, in unison.

Seek the great desire of nations

In this realm you will find not one.

Gloria. Gloria. Gloria.

he lives. but is sick, now.

He understands nothing -- Thirty-Dash

-30-

Song Four

The (revered) poet / gone.

- then plural.

So many honored ones / gone.

and then, there are the others -

who carry no fame, just flame / flown, as well.

Ambivalence. Don’t we all carry it on our backs?

The middle class has disappeared.

Not a single sidewalk out. For the rest.

And a bum like me? I have not a penny.

Not one. Not a cent to my name.

The doctors ask me to rest, now.

I’ve been told to find tomorrow. "Find tomorrow."

The others (the ignorant others) want me moving.

And there is the reality:

My actual survival. I bow my head

now. I will pray.

And I expect so very little. shitty tiny world.

This awful Earth: misery ‘does’ love company.

I’m not playing your game. Enjoy your pain.

Idiots.

I am going to count clouds and pet my cat.

Speak to my dog: who is deaf as wood.

I may decide that it is all too trivial. I think it is.

‘Earth spin’ will continue: until it finally ends. And it does.

meshuggener - from the Yiddish

Song Five

Make no mistake about it

the Earth has turned away;

it does so every year

on this decided day; a confused soul, self

(.. and I'm lost in the snow ..)

I know these days.

I have seen too many Januarys.

Though so much is dead;

we plumb what is alive!

when I was but a kid.

this was a favorite week.

Even decades flown,

the 'years of glory' keep.

But this year, I stand in awe

of the ones who -- wear this month -- a loose garment.

Effortlessly. It is too heavy for me now.

A weight. A wet wool coat.

Universe, I beg; just get me through January. Hope.

-and destroy the vicious muse!

(I no longer want her near)

-there is a stench on her breath.
-the World can smell it. But I refuse.

Song Six

Vibrant on that day; he told me-

- in a dream? No, in reality. He spoke on the phone -

the last day.

“I love you.”

My true hero: My father.

My ‘stern and steadfast’ father.

He said, “I love you, Super.”

(He always called me Super.)

(He was forever clear: “I love you, Super.”)

Lowell; The Bright, Bright light; and he said it.

Within hours, he was dead.

I knew then;

in that first horrible moment.

I knew ___________ And would never forget.

--- Never to hear “Super, ”

never again in my Earthly span. ---

never again my appointed and actual name:

- Not like he said it -

And so I miss it -- I miss my youth. Miss ‘the days.’

Those days.

“Super, this is your Old Man.”

“Super, ... I need to talk to you.”

“Super, I will see you again.”

***

(Lowell, you will not see me again. Not on this Earth.)

- but in ether? -- beyond the Seattle gloaming?

***

at the Eternity Door --

The final door.

You will find Daniel Bruce Slocum. Discover me standing as before.

with my curly hair, with hazel eyes -- eyes just like yours.

And the muse with one last word --

Meshuggah.

Song Seven

songs are fading;

a prayer book is near

-- etched cover --

Tehillim. Interlinear translation.

The Psalms

the salve

and

saved? ...No! No!

(...no ___no...)

...an answer for the Old Guy?

we don’t know; we won’t know

until the appointed time.

clearer now,

as Seattle clouds

roll in.

he knows ( ... He can see it ... )

It is clear in the gloaming,

unchanged by atmospherics.

Meshuggah. Goodbye Jerusalem.

Song Eight

Angels from the realms of Glory -- departing; Godspeed.

(so deserted; the pear tree — my fruit tree. Where is the fruit?)

where is the hope?

-- the bees are gone --

-- the season having flown --

(where are my Hostas? Where are the ferns with tiny leaves?)

it is the dead of winter

barren landscape resurrected for you fifty some-odd times.

in winter, some things die!

(yes, I know.

I just needed to hear it from you.)

wind blows through the January husks

--- the wonder we see in summer ---

Fallow - now. At rest.

We find birth, again; on some raw, new time.

in that span of time. (oh, the fuzzy math)

Gloria.

-----

Song Nine (the first song)

life is very hard

You know underneath skin, muscle, and viscera --

you will find guts. Same for all. For the holiest religious ones.

(the Popes) For the Movie Stars; park bums.

-- for the bums like me --

For all of us know fear. All of us see hair on the crotch.

All of us stream gas, fetid breath, vomit. life is very hard.

But we are ALIVE!

ALIVE!

measured not by years, but verve. pure verve.

That is alive.

----

drowning in Puget Sound

And then you are in the water. The immediate bodily response is hyperventilation, a gasp, like the wind being knocked-out of you; and it goes downhill from there. Your body knows something is wrong. Blood flow changes; pumping vigorously at your core, less in your extremities. Within minutes, the heart is beating very slowly and lung activity is diminished. You know you’re in danger and so does every cell.

In fact, your skin will actually begin to turn a shade of blue and that will intensify as the minutes tick by. Moving your fingers, arms and legs becomes next to impossible; like your whole body is wrapped in strapping tape.

You might aspirate some water, taking the brine and liquid straight into your lungs, but soon your throat seizes near the vocal chords and slams the airway shut. Obviously, this is not a good turn. No oxygen is entering your body. Even if you’re one of the few who has a limited spasm of the throat, the amount of oxygen is diminished to almost nothing.

The whole thing really deteriorates now. Panic requires energy and it’s just not there.

Consciousness, at this point, becomes iffy. Reality fades and is replaced with involuntary sleep. Your throat may relax; the choke-hold goes away. That’s bad news because water is freely flowing into your lungs.

You’re breathing water much like you did air, but in a blue sleep; and the heart beats for the last time. It stops.

And then you go away.

-----

the bet

what of this shall pass?

the famous poet once whispered in my ear,

"there is muscularity in risk"

to which I add, in pain, in fear

in danger.

would I choose the passing

of the very essence of my being;

flowing into a familiar river of dark?

the muck I love and wear so proudly. you muse.

you old war-horse; carrying the knowledge

of starving children, cancer death, holocaust,

abuse.

the stink of a cadaver. the shame of the unspoken.

do we embrace the Phoenix symbol? the rise from ash?

the celebration, the unevenness, imperfection, decay.

pure glory, so unexpected.

taxidermy eyes.

had I actually bet against myself?

had I counted on a yellow death?

-----

science fails

no innocence in this night of stars;

the appearance and the truth are contrary. it is the eternity dance again,

the brutal and beautiful annihilation of worlds,

and cycles, and spirals; tornadic, behind a gauze curtain.

tendrils of reality visible only to the few.

one is taken to the fair days, swaddled in memory husk, sword swallowers,

human oddities, candy floss, glee.

at the heart of it all, the reflection

obscured

and defying mirror image, exact replication prohibited,

and celebrated only as theme.

lethal angels are at play (lack of pain)

in a darkening field, now.

sun loss is here

and it is sad. counting down, now.

chaos is the mist, one trifling ingredient on an ascending scale,

orders of magnitude above--

one finds the grease, essentials--

the dawn is of truth only, not physical dawn, having passed

in this world, as one moves to hunker down in a new location.

science explains only a segment of the newness

worlds repeating, etc...

is it vanity and selfishness that took it all?

the post-apocalyptic discussions are tedious and too human,

but what other frame of reference can one endure?

broadcloth? that is the expectation;

longing for a definitive cause at a time like this.

mystics do not trump lethal angels.

the meanness is recycled as gelatinous brew, forked steaming into the throat.

swallow hard against the crush

reverse vomit.

every pulse is violent selfishness,

every single one

through all the worlds past or ever to come.

without limit.

so parsed by awkward language, this enormous sense of entitlement

transcends any tongue. We are, but mist—or dust.

one blink and out.

-----

across the bow

it is a singular sound. a crack in the breeze.
(gooseflesh popping. teeth chattering.)

the whiz of a missile—the hiss of a viper
just thirty feet above—

a whistle to raise leg hair—
in the pitch of a moonless night.

that goddam thing came straight
from the ebony; out of the ether—

(a black hole knows your name?)

the inky sky
the heave of the vessel. then a voice,
behind you on the stairs.

or maybe you’re alone

maybe you are shivering

(or dreaming)

maybe you lost your mind

panic stinking

it is in these moments of
torture (panic) disease finds a voice
(ugly falsetto)
all the drama—swirling, vibrating—
but only around her.

the epicenter

the storm blows by, to be followed,
in short order, by another.

and so, TODAY—
du jour

the fetid muse is singing.

-----

fire fingers (paper trick)

Dear Friend:

the poetic hypnosis is too obvious (and unflattering)

it should stop with Baudelaire; you sycophant of Rimbaud

and Cavafy. (crazy ones with fire fingers)

O Poet God -- be released of it.

O Poet God -- be sated!

The medium of this craft is oil; and

blood, placenta -- assorted mucous, semen;

feces (merde)———and watercolor.

the hypnosis is in the watching -- (must be a moment

of prestidigitation, as crazy flame

animates to the corporeal, in ink.) It happens in that instant.

There is the seduction; intimate, coded and conceived.

There is the sacrifice, Poet God. Are you happy?

Much Love.

-----

mingling with rock stars

there is always another

waiting in the wings (generation, culture, civilization)

and the dance is fleeting.

seems too many people hold on

to the simple equations, the fables

which explain away this complication.

are we forever going back to something

from the past for the ultimate answer?

nothing there.

now, in florescent certainty

there is another condemned

to think in lines. face of a tyrant

(fury and fame)

voice is gravel sorting the many lyrics

songs in the ears of millions

and no hope; but to burn-out

like so many candles

to nothing.

-----