in this blind heaven
By Ric on December 5, 2007 in Archetypal, Archetypes, Austin Poetry, Death, Modern Poetry, Myth, Mythology, Mythopoetry, Psychology, Texas Poetry, mythopoetics, poetrythe arrow points north
facing east he walks three
roads past the dead end on Route 2
* * * *
what does it mean the old man asks
he forgets that Zimmerman says
what matters is how it feels
i feel lost he replies—
plant a tree bend
in green grass
(not all clichés
yield archetypes—
name one that doesn’t)
* * * *
a question of isolation
how there are holes where
Alice drops & cannot get back
her arrows spin & the nothing that is not
the nothing the no thing that things
all that is & is not—not that
but (empty watch
where the happy
hunters break)
side step
with no
side &
* * * *
he knows what it means to be lost
the locked door that is no door
the dead end that abjects
how he said if you
find anything
at the end
it is false
the labyrinth
has no end—no end
* * * *
all leaves let go
their road & in this blind
heaven angels still recognize the lost
© 2007 Richard Lance Williams December 5 & she counts noses drawn to the buffalo stew: the red lining of the wide boulevards: for Gary Kent & David Kramer
the sun rises teal
facing south he crosses
three creeks near the YMCA
why does it hurt the lost man asks
he forgets that lennon says
you’re just a human a victim of the insane
i am lost he replies
eat a fresh apple
off a serpentine tree
i don’t understand what you mean
but here’s what he said
sure is hot, have a swig of clichés and drink deep
a question of deprivations
how it feels to be in a hole
and not realize you’re digging
her scissors cut & the something that is hot
falls away to the floor
like her G-string when she smiles
and steps out of it
(sorry, lost it there)
but
the happy hunting ground
is a nice story for oblivion
face dance
with three dimensional faces
one hers
one mine
one yours
he knows what it is like to be on a path
chilly at all times
but colder when he walks along the creek
just below the garden mesa
where foxes peek out of
tight holes in her luxuriant garden
how she said:
this is the byzantine end
and he said
no
it ended long ago
i’ve just been waiting for the word
pines trees
lose their needles
year around
brown pads the ground
but the pines are green
even in the dead of winter
Kesey Seven, december 05, 2007 tight holes in her luxuriant garden
Ahh…this is so good. What imagery…and how though provoking…and better yet, all you have to do is absorb the words…let them fill you as they will and you will understand. I love it, Ric.