Poets on Way to Place of Seneca Emergence

                                     May 12, 2012   (L to R) Dwain Wilder, Judith Kerman, John Roche, Will Nixon,
                                                                 Alan Casline, Stephen Lewandowski, obeeduid, Ken Warren,
                                                                 Andre Spears.                                             photo: Helen Ruggieri

OIKOS A Talk Presented by Brian Richards at CLOUDBURST COUNCIL

Oikos→oikeiotēs→oikeios→oikonomos : House→friendship→cognate / familial→steward

Economy (OED):  'The manner in which a house is ordered.'  Maintenance. Sam Johnson: a friend is one joined to another in mutual benevolence and intimacy; oikos:  mutual intimacy constitutes a household. An economics that protects composition is benevolent. Keats: 'friendship, the nurse of mutual good' (Sleep and Poetry) is built on Johnson's definition, as nurse is intimately tied with stewardship and Mama's tit. Dorn: ‘If [poets] are made, it's important to have a good mother.’ Creeley: ‘I hear / mother’s voice say / under my own, I won’t / want any more of that.’

Also, Darwin (OED) 'The economy shown by nature in her resources' where economy means the shortest elapsed time from A to B. Auden said that ‘the shortest distance between two points is a straight line’ and ‘love they neighbor as thyself’ cannot be compared because they are from different realms of discourse, but he’s wrong. Loving thy neighbor as thyself is, in fact, the shortest distance between two points. In poetry, friend is someone with whom you create that reciprocity.

Non-credit economies offer antinomies: gift economies rely on the person who has more than one of anything to offer the spare to one who has none. For all its potential for abuse the potlatch is the great economic leveler. Other economies are appropriative:  the one with none is free to take another's extra. There is a loose accounting, in the sense that reputation is involved, but shame is the issue there, and that person who can continue to take without bowing to the knowledge of what the neighbors think is figured into the model. Both systems fail when outside forces import goods and the concept of credit that goes with the invasion, as the commons of friendship is overcome by desire to relegate the other.

Dorn: 'I actually learned a lot from how Charles worked...the demonstration of it...it's so much like your life...you cast out ahead of yourself all this, like in a fan or a radius, and you go forward in it and the account of that…can be art.’ Economy inherent in that demonstrated use of the self as a tool, like getting a job because you want to buy a car so you have to buy a car so you can get to your new job.

The domestic economy of the Odd Couple. Olson: obsessively slovenly. Creeley: obsessively neat. Dorn: 'my strongest perceptions are ... imaginative and not domestic.’ Cf Duncan 'not by nature domestic...as Robin Hood in Sherwood Forest, outlawed and at home.’ Outlawed is where friendship among poets thrives, where imagination is honored as inseparable from the real. Home is what Dickinson never left. Niedecker. Wordsworth of Dorothy: 'My sister and my friend / Or something dearer still'. What could be dearer? Byron to Augusta: 'My sweet sister! If a name / dearer and purer were, it should be thine'. Friend mediates sister and lover.

The Marriage of Heaven and Hell: 'This angel, who is now become a devil, is my particular friend', as opposition is home to the differentiated particular. Opposition is re-elation, antithesis a vector. 'Opposition is true friendship': Bernadette Mayer: 'O I wish I had a friend who was only my equal.’ Later in Agoraphobia, '...I survive best in a fragile atmosphere. Not that I would be independent there, but that I would support others, and so you can see how the desire to support and to nourish becomes a need and it could, so publicly, become a need only of the least trustworthy, of those who are most bereft themselves.’ The economy of need operates in a market of fear. Ginsberg to Kerouac: 'Will you ever love me?' After 20 years of intense friendship, a quotidian potlatch v. the reality of establishing an economy in which claims for credit and debit are adjudicated on grounds more critical: job, marriage, the need to be needed, or needy, the long-imagined arrival of love.

We treat friendship as though it were a quality capable of postulate definition as well as a quantity that can be measured, but there are at last only specific instances we can judge and measure as emblems of a personal definition. Friendship among poets cannot depend on compromise, only forks in the road: we are companions or not; there are words that follow words, each a fork chosen. It is not economical to waste time at the fork, nor to follow one path regretfully, worse to 'hesitate and turn back' a la' Pound's accusation against the likes of Frost.

In college, we measured friendship in degrees of intimacy: 'I love you' we'd say to the no-longer compelling other, 'but I'm not in love with you,' making ‘the quality / of the affection’--dove sta memoria--an unbridgeable gap between verb and noun that seemed a comprehensive explanation. It is facile and tendentious to declare, 'I am in friend with you ', but there is that sense that poet friends are riding the like tiger, brought together by a force beyond the tedious use of the friend as 'there for me' that makes the condition seem optional when it's not, as Dorn's letter makes clear. "A friend is always there" doesn't stipulate a place but an absolute condition, even if she is in Timbukto while you are having a crisis in Toronto. On the other hand, unconditionality doesn't bear scrutiny well. Are you still a quarterback if you haven't got a team?

Friendship flourishes between a top and a bottom who are either pleased with their relative roles or pass the dominant position back and forth as the occasion demands. The poet cannot work in a world in which the social demands either domination or submission. The natural is a different story: the oak shades out and attenuates the dogwood, twist as it might in search of light sufficient to its needs, without a qualm, conditions native to the poet, cutting down My Friend Tree: this is what is. Reciprocity with a slow, stable sentience. Dorn calls it 'Harsh...throwing... human and non-human in the same bag. ‘It is not’, he says, 'in my hands to do otherwise.'

The economy of friendship among poets cannot be ruled by the necessary at the expense of the good. Plato said that the greatest chasm exists between the good and the necessary—he calls it unbridgeable—but the necessity in art is the solitude of composition, the good that it console and enrich and according to Kant what enriches us is what we can do without.

Friendship between poets is independent of distance, the more one must imagine the other sans encounter of a physical sort. There is no home base for the poet—no place 'for yourself only' (Oh No) where if you go there they have to let you in, let alone entertain notions of what you deserve, only limits—what we are inside of—to be found: how far does the form go? The consolation of friendship filled by post cards, specifically addressed, FB is unable to fill. Social media have not helped most of us who find it vexing to manage exponential expansion.

Creeley's intense, compulsive, idiosyncratic relation to language provided an immediate friendship, as Olson said in a letter early on. 'Because I am always talking...' ties him to the Maya, his boundless appetite for conversation metonymous with their bodies: 'The modern Maya are intimate with each other...do not shrink from touch.' Friendship requires no special other to differentiate the untouched common. This revelation, to the product of the Worcester diocese and the Ivy League, became the central conceit of THE HUMAN UNIVERSE. Not that his nostrums always applied to himself. Rules are for beginners, limits are what we are inside of. Genius is inimical to ordinary friendship, with its demands for specific attention, unlike the assumption of intimacy among the Maya. Form rises out of the occasion; taboos and models are ignored. Art as exchange in the economy of friendship extends the gift in two senses: that Olson lives in art in a place where he can be ignored by what he calls 'the social world of intention '; second, that Olson presents this thing that is art precisely because it is useless as a model, being one of a kind.

Ellis: ‘friendship betrays any overall “political” situation among groups and persons…or real friendship is corrosive of any idea that would usefully accumulate anything more than the Shelleyan “collected lightnings” so that friendship can never get beyond anything but endless charge and discharge, across whatever cultural grid you got.’ Friendship cannot get beyond anything without being reduced to a vehicle. It is born beyond anything and is nowhere in chains, though you can read 'now here' easily enough. For Shelley, friendship is insistently a bridge, allowing passage between humans, between earth and heaven, the known and the unknown. But in his own life, only ferries crossed such gaps, with uncertain schedules susceptible to sudden disruption.  This is not a flaw but an inexorable force, as the East Wind drives that poem, or 'The Rain' does Creeley's, and as friendship cannot drive "In Memoriam" anywhere but to the grave. It was not friendship that drove 'Broadcide', Dorn's wonderful elegy for Richard Brautigan, but disgust at the quizzical judgments of so-called friends. 'De-cide' defines 'death following a decision' and a friend would honor that and demand no further explanation, as Shelley's final sail left friends wondering why he urged piling on canvas in the face of a such a fresh breeze as blew up a gale, or why he laughed in death's face—death that had only stolen his children—as he came as close to flying as Icarus.

The company as Creeley understood it is filtered through Pound yearning for the world of Dante and Cavalcanti and the troubadours--Crane's 'Visionary Company' through Slater Brown into Creeley’s Hart Crane: 'could not / go further / without those friends'. In such a company, the whole must be equal to the individual, thus an obligation to exclude no member of the company no matter how hard to tolerate. This is Dorn's dilemma, expressed in a letter to Olson:

"I can hardly get along with [Creeley], but sense that I can hardly not be a deep friend or whatever the score is that day. Or tomorrow." It takes a double negative, an insistence on the indirect article, and a temporal disclaimer to be clear. Dorn's double negation reflects the relationship between the fool's inattention to collateral damage and the friend's obligation to deal with it. Fools and poets are difficult friends because they are predictably unpredicatable. Friends never say, "If you were my friend you would...."  "Drive, he sd" is not prescriptive but reactive: 'As I sd to my / friend because I am / always talking' where talk causes friendship. Letter 6 from MAXIMUS: 'It is just such folly isn't necessary, yet I have not noticed / that those who are sharp haven't got that way / by pushing their limits.' Again the insistent double negative. Fool stepping off into the abyss, of the drunken farmer, 'leave him lay off it', Creeley said as a young man.

The company is absolutely inclusive but never contains more than a remnant of those who hold a ticket. It is set of protocols sufficient only to those who live within its bounds. What keeps the company small is the understanding that the obligation is finally a privilege that defines the reductive function common to open protocols. For there is no doubt that Dorn was Creeley's friend and Creeley was Dorn's. The alien landscape of 'West of Moab' they travelled together later measured that dumb weariness that most requires a friend, as much an ordeal as the antics in Frisco the letter refers to.

Creeley and Ginsberg both committed to the politics of the hip: vote with your horn, founded in the  economy of language. One line, one vote, drawn in the sand. Dorn: 'It's my way of voting early and often.' His economic model: 'Some kind of cooperative society...as against one in which a small number of people have an upper hand in exploiting others. That's not to say much because everybody more or less feels that way.' Actually not; capitalists don't feel that way; consumers don't feel that way. Many in the arts have entered that world, but few poets, since you can't make an honest living writing poems. But it's the company of poets Dorn means by 'everybody.'

‘Alienation’ Melville ‘suffered’ in CALL ME ISHMAEL, or Sam Houston at San Jacinto, crying 'Have I not a friend in the world?' at his moment of triumph. What comes after the poem? Olson: 'I rupture these friendships with men violently.' A struggle to secure his freedom from those who had made it possible to use that freedom productively by offering him ways and means. Letter 20 #5: It is not the substance of a man's fault / it is the shape of it / is what lives with him, is what shows.' It's not what you did to your friend but that you produced such an abomination of form. Olson in his notebook, to Dahlberg: 'no matter how much you have done, how grateful I am...I will not trade in life, I cannot....'. The extension is clear: even if Olson were willing to give up his own goals, it was not in his power to do so.

Keats on the sin of 'flattering oneself into an idea of being a great poet'. The pain of being impelled by a force that must seem to others grandiose, selfish, and cold; this is the great obstacle to intimacy for poets: waiting for the hammer to drop. Ken Warren, in THE EMPEROR’S NEW CODE, points to Olson’s ‘cold ‘recoil from’ Frances Boldereff’s festering lily, placing the demands of the work beyond her physical need to be full of him. She wants the power to hurt Olson by insisting on her need for his cock, but--at what emotional cost?—he will not rise to her. Keats again: others 'do not know me...even my most intimate acquaintance…I am content to be thought all this because I have in my breast so great a resource.' Later, 'Though the most beautiful Creature were waiting for me at the end of a Journey...my Happiness would not be so fine, as my Solitude is sublime.' Olson is impaled in solitude by the sublime challenge to—as Bernadette Mayer says—‘work your ass off to change the language’, to get it out of the hands of those who think that economy is about winning and winning is about acquiring a larger share of the commons.

Solitude is the steward of the potlatch from which all gifts spring; protecting it is not something we choose to do, an arrangement between parties, but that necessary economy that makes each one of the company, not by fate arranged but by the fact of what each one of us has accepted, what even so hardheaded a realist as Dorn called our sacred responsibility: 'There are certain Obligations of the Divine...part of the function is to be alert to Spirit....'

Poetry, being without base, provides no leverage; friendship between poets does: How can anyone read Olson without concluding that he was pulled by forces too strong for his personality or his intellect to successfully resist? Olson, Dorn & Creeley pushed off from each other as did Duncan, Spicer and Blazer. The Beats. The Manhattoes. Duncan: 'The rapture of the initiated lies in this: his soul is congregationalized.'

The economy of poetic friendship is based in an extended content that reinforces a shared sense of the way form works. Dorn: 'I believe in the shared mind'. His poem, Chronicle:

            Inside Fred plays his cello

            and the air sings thereby

            Here, all around, is

            the world, out on points, on the horizon are

            friends close and far gone

            with the tautness of

            these corded strings

            bind them together.

Solitude is the poet’s best friend: it is the necessary that opposes the good of ordinary friendships. Other poets share this solitude, do not insist on other presents. The economy of the friend is the exchange of solitude. An economics that protects composition is benevolent. The condition is simplicity: From Gloucester Out: ‘I want him to stay away / from the tables of familiarity / I want him to walk by the seashore alone / in all height.' Here is the deep friendship of poets defined.

A Talk Presented by Brian Richards as part of Panel: Economy and Friendship on May 12, 2012 at CLOUDBURST COUNCIL, Naples, New York, USA

WORDS AFTER EVENT: OUR CLOUDBURST

Our CLOUDBURST isn't over. Clouds have moved, rain has stopped, still aware of chance for late lightening strike. Jennifer pushed for me to take a few days off and rest from the weekend at the Gell Center and the getting there and back. I found myself not wanting to add the first word to the whole event. Better to hold it all together in one mix of memory and feeling. Originally, "what people said afterwards" was one of my interests in undertaking this gathering with John Roche, Ken Warren and Stephen Lewandowski. I've had poems and comments come in, ate the last of the left over bagels this morning, planted the chestnut seedling Alifare Skebe gave us, began this blog post and before the day is over will print some books.
There is a treasure trove in all the notes and materials placed in the Magic Citadel notebook and we video-taped the whole conference! Here are some of my photos.

Old friends, Brian Richards and Stephen Ellis (first time together in 5 years)

Alifare Skebe

Martha Treichler

Stephen Baraban

Dwain Wilder

Steve Tills

Judith Kerman (with Steve Tills in background)

"Cookie" (also known as Stephen Lewandowski)

obeedúid~

Peter Franklin
Those are the best of my portrait photos. I did the best with what I had to work with.  Was caught up in the details and didn't get to track everyone down for their picture. There is a nice set of photos from David Landrey that we have permission to use on the Cloudburst blog. Lots more. This the first comment that reached us from Andre Spears as he flew (by airplane) away from our green hills. "Thanks for a splendid effort & harmonious results"  Also this poem:

Cloudburst (Breakthrough) Limerick

       I live                                        made

       in a                                       of three

       Magic Citadel                             walls

                               from the depths

                       of

                                                  Hell.

       A   cosmic     dead    end

                                              for me and

                                                   my   friend

       it     keeps    me   awake                    

       when        I’m     reading           well.

                   ---Andre Spears

PROGRAM CLOUDBURST COUNCIL MAY 2012

With unpredictable and in some cases terrible circumstances, a few of the expected people are not going to be able to make it to this year's Cloudburst Council. We will miss them all. Maybe next year folks-- We still have more poets per square foot than the average wood lot so let's go...

PROGRAM

Fri. May 11, 2012

4:00-5:00   Registration

5:00-6:00   Light Dinner Served (soup, bread, green salad )

6:00-6:10  Ken Warren Welcome

6:10-6:25  David Landrey poems

6:25-6:40  Andre Spears poems

6:40-7:40  Panel - The Magic Citadel ( Dave Landrey, Alan Casline,  Martha Treichler)

7:40-8:00  Stephen Ellis poems

8:00-8:15  Break

8:15-8:30  Martha Deed  poems

8:30-9:30  Panel - The Plasma of Friendship  (Stephen Ellis, Stephen Baraban, Ken Warren)

9:30-9:45  Helen Ruggieri poems

9:45-10:00  John Roche wrap-up

10:00  Party

 Sat. May 12, 2012

 9:00-9:15  Relaxation Movements led by Helen Ruggieri (Meet Outside Lodge)

 9:15-9:45  Breakfast (oatmeal,cereal,fruit,pastry,etc.) –Kitchen will remain open past 9:30

 9:45-10:45    Cloudburst Panel (Stephen Lewandowski, Ken Warren, Alan Casline, John Roche)

 10:45-11:00  JudithKerman poems

 11:00-11:15  Break

 11:15-12:15  Panel - Economy and Friendship (  Brian Richards, Andre Spears, Stephen Tills, 

                                                                         Alifare Skebe )

 12:15-12:30  Martha Treichler poems

 12:30-12:45  Michael Czarnecki  poems

 12:45 Lunch Served (cold sandwiches bag lunch)

 Open Time 12:45 – 3:15

Tour of Seneca Point of Emergence with Steve Lewandowski (optional)

3:15-3:30  obeeduid

3:30-3:45  Will Nixon

3:45-4:00  Break

4:30-4:45  Ryki Zuckerman

4:45-5:00  Patricia Schwartz                    

5:00-5:15  Brian Richards

5:15-7:00 Dinner (hot vegetarian etc.)

7:00-10:00 - Open Reading ( 10 min per poet)

Steve Tills, Stephen Baraban Therese Broderick, Paulette Swartzfager

Dwain Wilder, Colleen Powderly, Alifair Skebe (add any more participants as they appear)

10-10:10 or when Open Reading ends:  Alan Casline Wrap-up

10:11 Campfire Party with Music

 Sun. May 13, 2012

9:15-9:30  Relaxation Movements led by Helen Ruggieri

9:30-10:30  Brunch (like Saturday Breakfast plus eggs and meat)

9:30-10:30  Trade Fair

10:30-11:45 Panel Gift (Stephen Lewandowski, John Roche, Michael Czarnecki,)

 11:45 – 12:15 John Roche Further

Stephen Ellis: Opening Paragraph, tentative title...

Notes for Plasma: I’ll Come Back for You, In Outermost Circumference Drawn Down and Far Away, but to Slip Back In with the Key to the Abyss, where Taffy-Pulling Machines have Also and Always Been another Big Thing

At 4:25 AM the birds start singing, their first murmurs dwelling in trees through which stars are still visible.  Birds are friends, or, the songs they sing are determined by my hearing as novel – and attractive - to the perhaps genetic necessity of their so singing, and the question remains, are birds friendly?  I’ll leave it to the fact that they invariably fly away on approach, although a friend in Riga coaxed sparrows to peck the some of the raspberries we’d just bought at the Russian outdoor market from her fingers by making a sustained kissing noise with her lips, and offering them in the still atmosphere of her unmoving yet still generous hand.  Memories blossom, memories fade way, as the sparrows left the outdoor café as we did, also, having the time to have ‘run out of time.’  We go always elsewhere. Life is episodic among friends.  Episode, from Greek epeisodios, ‘coming in beside,’ or ‘coming into the road or journey,’ see cede, it says, ‘to sit on this side, to yield or grant,’ typically by treaty, episodic as temporal and temporary, situation in which there is agreement.  Birds as friends remind of how Sufis refer to one another, as ‘friends,’ and bring forward, as well, the various recitals having to do with birds, movement, unity and liberation, notably ibn Sina’s Recital of the Bird, Fariduddin al-Attar’s Parliament of the Birds, and, to twist the song slightly away from the birds, Suhrawardi’s Recital of the Occidental Exile (translated, among others, by Michael Bylbyl in Curriculum of the Soul fascicle no. 18, Isma’ili Muslimism), and The Recital of Hayy ibn Yaqzan, by ibn Sina’s friend and contemporary Juzjani.

These and other ‘recitals’ have to do with positioning – or re-positioning – one’s self in an initiatic cosmos through which to discover one’s submission – ‘dying’ before one dies – as means of ‘knowing’ God as the mirror through which He sees himself as both partitioning and uniting one’s now-alive life to a ‘self’ feeling pleasure in which there is no final satisfaction, the tools of ecstasy reduced to one’s perceptual mechanism and an intelligence developed sufficiently to know the fracture between an overwhelmingly ‘sacral’ world and one’s daily ‘self’ is what one has, to work with.  The trials are obvious.  So is the necessity for isolation and prayer.

It is probably now infamous enough a fact that Sufism operates institutionally as a male-dominated procedure, despite the lesser-known fact that, for example, theologian  Ibn al-Arabi’s two primary masters as he came into sufic practice were both women, one, Shams, from Marchena and the other, Fatima bint al-Muthanna, from Cordova, in Andulusia.  During his travels with various male friends, al-Arabi met and fell in love with the daughter of a learned man of Mecca, Abu Shaja Zahir bin Rustam – who name significantly enough I cannot find – about whom he wrote ‘[she is] a slender child who captivated all who looked on her, whose presence gave luster to gatherings, and who amazed all she was with and ravished the senses of all who beheld her.’

Gender has always presented difficulty in defining operative friendships.  My Webster’s Collegiate derives the world ‘friend’ through an old High Germanic root that relates back to a prehistoric Germanic verb represented in the Old English freon, ‘to love,’ akin to freo, free.  An obscure or obsolete definition of ‘friend’ is given as ‘paramour,’ an illicit lover.  An embodiment of love is apparently distinct from ‘loving,’ as I take it from Montaigne, in his essay on friendship, quoting Horace as having said ‘a lovely woman’s body tapers off into a fish.’  In terms of friendship as brotherly concord, Montaigne continues, ‘as for comparing with it [brotherly concord] with affection for women, though this is born of our choice, we cannot do it, nor can we put it in this class.  Its fire, I confess, of us that goddess is unaware / who blends a bitter sweetness with her care, [Catullus] is more active, more scorching and more intense.  The politics of friendship can only, it seems, extend so far, more light, less heat, or that the heat be at very least highly sublimated, and as a sublimate, remain submerged, and only in evidence as analogy, as if sexuality were a reservoir that feeds a spiritual connection to the earth, whose growth won’t spiral out of control, or will, but only numerologically, not in the number of friends, say, but, like they say, your friends are weird.  Or, one ‘goes weird’ for their friends, for friendship still involves shares of ecstasy, whether sexual or sacral, this love, as it enters up relation, requires involvement enough to see through to a failure to enter the ecstasy, or  ways to discover in its almost inevitable psychic violence and transformation, an enduring intelligence.

Reading Quintin Hoare’s introduction to the International Publisher’s 1971 edition of Selections from the Prison Notebooks of Antonio Gramsci,  there was the suddenness of Benedetto Croce – an ardent Italian Marxist until 1900 – and his attempt to clarify the four distinct categories of human activity – Aesthetics (the Beautiful), Logic (the True), Ethics (the Good) and Economos (the Useful).  Gramsci was critical of this four-square idealism, and said that Politics (Relation), in this equation, had been reduced to a mere passion having no philosophical value.  By contrast, Gramsci’s notion of politics figures as the central human activity, ‘the means by which single consciousness is brought into contact with the social and natural world, in all its forms.’

Recalling now, in the drift of writing, a tape recording of Robert Creeley’s reading at Goddard College in May 1973, I remember him saying, in a reading which was mostly LSD-generated talk, rather than a recital of poems, a basic recital of applicable human values, as it were, that, one first, learned how to become a person in her own right, and then, how to be a person among others.  The first seems immediate and instant in its grounding, as this develops, if it does, into what remains always spontaneous and responsive, where in the second, there are integers of culture and social habit into which one falls, is identified, rises and perhaps passes through.

There was, after the reading, some outré behavior on Creeley’s part, involving, I heard, him putting a ladder up on the side of the girl’s dormitory and banging with palms against the windows to alert one particular young lady who’d been at the reading, to his presence, and factual readiness to ‘continue the conversation.’  But this is merely the report of a friend who attended the reading, and might not be true.  Friends tend to fabrication, elation and exaggeration.  A later version revolves around this same friend having been the ‘sober driver’ of a group who drove down to Plainfield from Burlington, including the wife of a better friend whose beauty I was able later to attest to, and who Creeley, after the reading, became uniquely interested in, an interest intense enough that he accused my friend, gently insisting that the group depart, of being ‘the most boring person in the universe.’

My friend, Bud, wrote shortly afterward, a piece entitled Homage to Creeley for Jack Spicer, worth quoting here in toto:

*

Each poet leads to every other poet.  It is a round.  A mingling.  That confluence, Bob, can be enough for me.  The me and you you mixed from the largest to most minutest elements when you say: The plan is the body: The plan is the body.

                                                                                                                                                It seems to be what’s always /around.  Random scheme that circulates because of the spirit in things and us.  Becoming sometimes you and sometimes intensely me or what intensity in you is me or me to you in return; and then of course on to her and him and you again; for the intense remains like a wave accumulating before all its current force – or dancing motion – and about to crest and fulfill its promise to us borne through it.

                                                                That breaking – like the similar, more acute, breaking of the heart – is art of that plan too, it seems.  That passing on, to you and you  you  you  you  you  you  you

                                                                                You said that. And if water kneads us, mixes us, that we consent to fow along with it as simply as we consent to this immersion in language – language of fact & feeling tortuously immeshed – needing us – and so compelling, the compulsion is to need it also.

                                                                                                                                Those fellows pass the peace pipe and up ahead is the rain and the night.  You lean in a lit doorway, the cigarette in your fingers held up below your face, and any answer – even on a dare – has no model by which to evade pain.  Pain’s narrow objectives outnumbering you & me, outnumbering us.  Numb and dim on a rainy night.

                                                                                                                                                                                The implications are unclear.  They’re immense.  Each thing leading to what else?  And this is the point at which you want to stop.  To come back from what can prove to be only another threshold.  Some cigars, your shoelaces.  The virtue of movement at any altitude.  If we go on.  Beyond mere solutions.  Doors, raindrops, doubts      shadowing us.

                                                                    But of course it is in the radiance of a few words spoken, that gathers pieces of bread in a saucer, and displaces or damns or, at last, sadly, accepts even the least glaring possibilities.

In this distance I can imagine you and can take up the rhythm of energy that forms a current – more than surface tension – and really does quell the pain.  Does get on with intensity.                                                                                                                                                               If the situation didn’t change, still, I think, there would be so much flesh on the imagination and its resources to make death-by-drowning practically out of the question.  As cable cars, aspens, dawns, pianos, handkerchiefs, acting as buoys and as preservers as much as poems, carry me – but almost beyond living memory – back in a kind of marriage to you.

                                                                                                                                         We all live with the same flaws.  The same puzzles.  Dance of muscle and blood.  The same unconscious maps to consult.  And the waves of speech do this too.  You may have told me it was out of the question, but I heard different.  That the dance could be over.  As a fight can be over someone you love.  That mingles with what might be, kept behind dreams, rustling, individual.

                                                                                           It is because everything works closely with each other thing that were closer than ever.  As I was about to leave I gave you an orange and you would not accept it as a replacement for the sun, no matter how temporary. The orange changed meaning numerous times, there on the table between us.  And yet, in that moment of departure, grew closer to us both through those very tenses of its momentary transformation.  Not even being lonely.  We and it being closer.  Even when this physical distance appears most actual, most crucial.

                                         And it is because of the loneliness that I dedicate this to Jack, and then, surely, to all of us.

*

The social, and natural world, in all its forms.  The political is personal.  No.  Politics is a person.  People are in turmoil, in conflict, especially when they speak, even as I am speaking to you.  No.  I am reading words on a page.  No.  I am writing out of the turmoil of having volunteered to speak to you at a later date, from where I am, or was, from here.  But that was then, and there.  As my ex-wife used to say, here we are, and there you go again.  Language is a graveyard, and our use of it, a vortex, a whirlpool that sucks down our giving to it some sense of ‘all,’ which then, in contradistinction, rises suddenly up, to appear, radiant, yet only evident from the waist up.  The relevant part is still drowning, or being born, or bearing up under the strain of wanting to be more conspicuous than it randomly possible, given the time of day, the season, the year.  Friendship, whether among poets or simply among those others who, as birds, or their songs, or all those with whom one may find some sense of traverse, spread, focus and domain, is always fraught with a critical spirit, and the ability to finally ask in how one discovers another’s way in, or out, or their intent to accomplish some implausible ante-up in matters of love, or foreign travel, ‘but why are you doing that?’ The gift is simply a talent to ask, to give to others a tenancy for passion shared, a tendency to be at home, some way to help begin to create an alliance between the living and the dead.