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Paul Blackburn
dying now, or already dead
hello. It s only Ted, interrupting
in case I hadn t said, as clearly
as I d have it said, Paul,
I hear you, do. Crossing Park Avenue
South; 4:14 a.m.; going West at
23rd; September 1st, 1971.
New Personal Poem
to Michael Lally
You had your own reasons for getting
In your own way. You didn t want to be
Clear to yourself. You knew a hell
Of a lot more than you were willing
to let yourself know. I felt
Natural love for you on the spot. R-E-S-P-E-C-T. Right.
Beautiful. I don t use the word lightly. I
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Protested with whatever love (honesty) (& frontal nudity)
A yes basically reserved Irish Catholic American Providence Rhode
Island New Englander is able to manage. You
Are sophisticated, not uncomplicated, not
Naive, and Not simple. An Entertainer, & I am, too.
Frank O Hara respected love, so do you, & so do we.
He was himself & I was me. And when we came together
Each ourselves in Iowa, all the way
That was love, & it still is, love, today. Can you see me
In what I say? Because as well I see you know
In what you have to say, I did love Frank, as I do
You, in the right way.
That s just talk, not Logos,
a getting down to cases:
I take it as simple particulars that
we wear our feelings on our faces.
n n n
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From Easter Monday
Chicago Morning
to Philip Guston
Under a red face, black velvet shyness
Milking an emaciated gaffer. God lies down
Here. Rattling of a shot, heard
From the first row. The president of the United States
And the Director of the FBI stand over
a dead mule. Yes, it is nice to hear the fountain
With the green trees around it, as well as
People who need me. Quote Lovers of speech unquote. It s
a nice thought
& typical of a rat. And, it is far more elaborate
Than expected. And the thing is, we don t need
that much money.
Sunday morning; blues, blacks, red & yellow wander
In the soup. Gray in the windows frames. The angular
Explosion in the hips. A huge camel rests
in a massive hand
Casts clouds a smoggish white out & up over the Loop, while
Two factories (bricks) & a fortress of an oven (kiln)
Rise, barely visible inside a grey metallic gust.
The Fop s Tunic.
She gets down, off of the table, breaking a few more plates.
Natives paint their insides crystal white here (rooms)
Outside is more bricks, off-white. Europe at Night.
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The End
Despair farms a curse, slackness
In the sleep of animals, with mangled limbs
Dogs, frogs, game elephants, while
There s your new life, blasted with milk.
It s the last day of summer, it s the first
Day of fall: soot sits on Chicago like
A fat head s hat. The quick abound. Turn
To the left; turn to the right. On Bear s Head
Two Malted Milk balls. Through not taking himself
Quietly enough he strained his insides. He
Encourages criticism, but he never forgives it.
You who are the class in the sky, receive him
Into where you dwell. May he rest long and well.
God help him, he invented us, that is, a future
Open living beneath his spell. One goes not where
One came from. One sitting says, I stand corrected.
Newtown
Sunday morning: here we live jostling & tricky
blues, blacks, reds & yellows all are gray
in each window: the urbanites have muscles
in their butts & backs; shy, rough, compassionate
& good natured, they have sex in their pockets
To women in love with my flesh I speak.
All the Irish major statements & half the best
Low-slung stone. Upstairs is sleep. Downstairs
is heat. She seems exceedingly thin and transparent
Two suspicious characters in my head. They park & then
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Start, the same way you get out of bed. The pansy is
Grouchy. The Ideal Family awaits distribution on
The Planet. Another sensation tugged at his heart
Which he could not yet identify,
half Rumanian deathbed diamond
Wildly singing in the mountains with cancer of the spine.
Soviet Souvenir
What strikes the eye hurts, what one hears is a lie.
The river is flowing again between its banks.
Grant one more summer, O you Gods! that once I did not ask
The windows through which the bells toll are like doors
Because she is direct in her actions and in her feelings
Under the puns of the troop, there are frescoes
On the rudder, which you set against a bracelet s fire, and
Which goes toward you with each beat.
I find myself there; am I finally ill at ease with my own
Principle? Fortune be praised! Immense density, not divinely,
bathes us
I hear walking in my legs
The savage eyes into wood look for the head they can live in
It s my window, even now, around me, full of darkness, dumb,
so great!
My heart willingly again beginning crying out; and at the same time
anxious, love, to contain.
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Old-fashioned Air
for Lee Crabtree
I m living in Battersea, July,
1973, not sleeping, reading
Jet noise throbs building fading
Into baby talking, no, speechifying
Ah wob chuk sh guh! Glee.
There s a famous Power Station I can t see
Up the street. Across there is
Battersea Park
I walked across this morning toward
A truly gorgeous radiant flush;
Sun; fumes of the Battersea
Power Station; London air;
I walked down long avenues of trees
That leant not ungracefully
Over the concrete walk. Wet green lawn
Opened spaciously
Out on either side of me. I saw
A great flock of geese taking their morning walk
Unhurriedly.
I didn t hurry either, Lee.
I stopped & watched them walk back up toward
& down into their lake,
Smoked a Senior Service on a bench
As they swam past me in a long dumb graceful cluttered line,
Then, taking my time, I found my way
Out of that park;
A Gate that was locked. I jumped the fence.
From there I picked up the London Times, came home,
Anselm awake in his bed, Alice
Sleeping in mine: I changed
A diaper, read a small poem I d had
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