THE FUTURE IS AN OPEN BOOK

I sit myself
in the middle
of massive group:
the super-consumers!
Having done my 'rounds,
done my 'round,
and bored.
I gave and got myself
only for
a $3 pin.
I wait around
watching
waiting for the man
I call my father
to show.
I wait
I wait
around
I wait
I look out
and look
around.
Life is getting clever.
Life is thrusting
sending
delivering!
My senses.
This is the world.
This is the world.
Life is clear:
obvious,
ugly
beautiful.
I sit here.
When will the man
be satisfied.
I'm right
in the middle
noise
and people
everywhere.
I'm reading Wolfe's
Electric Test.
I am closing in
on the chapter,
"What do you think
of my Buddha?".
I think,
before I ever
heard of this
before I ever knew
of Kesey,
or Leary or Huxley
or Watts and
whatnot
I have put myself
into that open field
of mind operation.
The grand,
cosmic
jitter-smoothing
visionquest
you know?
a spacemission
you know,
the space in my third eye!
That THING that
makes perception
and that adjacent door
into perception.
This feeling is up to here!
I live and relive
and think and
attempt desperately
to perceive
and it's exactly
how it' is.
And in this heap
of human flesh
and heap
of mental activity
reading, living
and reliving, remember?
These words
are done well.
I read: PALO ALTO,
CALIE, JULY 21, 1969,
AND THE DAY
THE END
OF AN ERA...
I have been moved,
already by story,
and then this day
the people of Perry Lane
and, truly,
one of the first
genuine waves
of the sixties
died, for "the bulldozers
came" and everything
was taken down.
A slap!
Razing community
with intention to disperse
the growth of counter culture.
To replace it's root with suburbia.
The day the era died
the day
the era
died, my world,
was the day
my mother
was born.

The discussion of want is acceptable between siblings.

Listen
to the music between your voice,
it's utterly inspirational.
Listen to the footsteps
of the drifting spirit:
we have come
as solid flesh
to make noise as we move.

The ocean is natural percussion.
The wind, I think, just everything.

I want to dance.
I want to make move the soul at my feet
and bring my whole world with it.
I want the incidental place,
a place, even, that goes on perfectly without me.
A place that will never know I have come to visit.
There will be nothing to do but dance.
I want to speak out with anonymous voice!
To the strange getting stranger
who will tell my story to me
and I,
for myself.

I want to dance
around the song of your riff
at the side of the road
waiting for our next ride.

I want to go off only
with my soul and my psychedelia.

It's a hard road.
It's a damn hard way.

I want to see layers of earth
no one will ever understand.
I want to confront They of every kind,
unless they are not kind.
I want to BE GONE
to be at roam as the chance encounter,
the chance conversation,
practically unimportant.

I give away possession.
I want nothing but the home on my back.
I will banish all luxury
and sprawl out in the dirt ground.
If the sky is clear
I will lay there for lifetimes
and declare myself elated
for this simple existence.
The world will know I have nothing,
and give nothing to me
but what
I can't leave behind.

The world, this dent
of our universe, an emotional playground
that keeps such mysteries.

I have been a grain of sand;
among many contemporaries.
I have been a cloud;
feeding flowers before their bloom
with my weeping rage.

I have walked
and have come across a brother.

I want nothing now that has resulted from human thought.
Nothing that has been taken or touched
or dabbled by manipulating hands,
I want just
the expression
of life.
The wilderness of man
and the characters of nature.
Do you hear? I want the road!
The FREEWAY, brother,
I cannot wait.

And above all my wants,
I consider it beautiful
that footprints left at the shoreline
last only moments
before a wave does come
to conform it back to perfect land.

iISM

I forgot to mention my prediction on art
is that next
it will involve spirituality.

If everything's been done
add another dimension.

THE WORLD AFTER POST MODERNISM.

The brights! The sunlight glows
the things that are my freak:
what broken objects
can I now see?

May I bask in this warmth
of spectacle of starry infinite invitation

Or,
have I landed
in another box?

I swam to Aquarius today.
We spoke of our dead world
and our newbirthed hope
for art.

Yes, I said: I agree that material-availability
has made everyone the small-time artist.
The world of creation is hardly elitist anymore.
But the notion that everything has been done already
is gross,
it grosses me OUT;
it is revolting.
ART
can never cease.

Yes, she says, I agree that art
can never cease, but understand
the modern difficulty.

I understand that everything said is true.
I understand that brats and thugs have names.
I understand that society is boring and the
concrete middle class have nothing
in meaning except spare time.

To be louder and hard, we must create.
I don't care that Time is the filter.
I don't care that through the worlds Great Connection
it is harder to Be.
I'm sorry. I'm sorry.
There are times that manifesto's are spat in speech.

I think of the "hip"
and the beatific hip
and the glamour involved with history.
I explain to my consciousness, when
you're telling the story
you will be from another Time.
You will understand reasoning
for it slips from the present,
as the gift.

A thing that shone
shines brighter
from afar.

The world of art is by reflection.

Everywhere there is conversation
concerning the masters and the idiots.
I recall words between
two fires
and one earth
on topic that the brush of the past
is the only capable thing.
That on the hereby,
it is only through influence.
I sat quietly and observed.
They were almost convincing
in their fervor of cant.
These intelligent people,
at play with their words
making the creation of art harder for themselves
discovering ego in solitude
and shy to reveal.
Actually with attitude
that uniqueness has deceased.

Some of my most adored with this thought.
Some of my most adored for they do this thought think
and yet everyday create something new.
I wanted to call them mindless,
but just for their communication
they were mindful.
I wanted to tell them they are simply
afraid to conquer
But they have proven their creativity
despite the opinion on their tongues.

There is originality, friends.
And you are among the original.

I search to the past and do consider
every phase every era every generation.

Is it not wonderful
that the world is beyond Huxley?
That Tesla, Tesla! existed.
That I may look at Ernst
and fall on my soul.

The first time I ever heard the name
Max Ernst I was in New York
happened at a collection of his work.
I was born, then, at the moment
I began to cry (before the days it was accepted)
beholding a
WORK
OF
ART.

My world! What was once a blank canvas
moved me so much.
Who was this man?
And,
how could I now fear god?

Nevermind, the image is just.
I am in a world of illusion.
You understand, illustration
is in image of it.

The artist has relationship
with the world.
Thrusting expression against the
scheme of chance, winding personal reality
to abrasive consumption
and colliding skill (which is past) with ambition (going forth).
Having collected thought enough
to set it down in composition,
renewing itself as the birth
of the onlookers thought.

At the second's tick,
inspiration may be recognized.
By the hour's arm,
the artform may strengthen.

O, great thinker
brave thee even speak,
superior is your station.

I HAVE SEEN
NOW LET ME WONDER.

I have been unemployed now for several months.
I have stayed within,
painting picture, writing verse,
getting high and thinking deeply
of my place on earth
of the people involved
of the creation involved
and the words that may
flow with it.

I'm exploring the world by
exploring my mind.

To be content with a day spent
at home thinking.
To go off into the wild, exhaust,
and seek these months of recovery.
Morning must be easy.
Past nightfall, there is serious mindwork to do.
In humor I believe that I am
the underlying cause
man has not yet achieved outer space.

There is goodness on earth.

Each day my mind gifts me with thought.
You understand,
thinking itself is gaining knowledge.
That every piece of KNOW
is available in meditation.
In Tao, on all fronts,
there is learned lesson.
In silence, on all counts,
there is the timeless wise.

I rest beside my boiled water
and watch the leaves and petals steep.
World! The water changes universe.
I think of element
and relationship
and smile at my teacup.

I sketch through my recent words now
and take my mind back to the very stream
of continuum riff.

I apologize to somata.
I am seizing my mental ideals
and that deeply concerns
my peace of day.

I do understand eruption is
passion is an eclipse of self-containment
is unfelt memory
for reflection has not passed;
is ejaculation
is the current of psychosis
and the fundamentals of art.
Is chaos on the bank of humanity
is exhaust at bay
and the temple at ransom.

I do understand the dress of revolution.
Of religious poverty (almost extinct)
and the freedom in carelessness (the momentum).

My gut compels me.
It has acted and now I must observe
both shy and obscene.
I want to relate.
Is the canvas dry?
Is she prepared for another layer?

The only thing I need
is natural light.

Where is the creative world?
Stuck in the junk
of method and death.
THE ISM NOW IS iISM.
The movement now is new.
A young foot on ancient ground.

A curious begoner,
because I do become
and I will be gone.

On She This Mother
good and proud,
green and blue,
I will walk
I will know
I will trust
and I will meet
those who Are.

Already it is brighter.

What will science give?
A new god?
A new light?

I have come here in primitive times.
I'd like to know of the experiments they're
doing now with apes.
Are they talking monkey slang?
Walking perfectly upright and at war
with each other?

There is everything I do not know about.
And there is everything left
to think about.

I think about the evolution of mind.
I think, always, about the people I know.
I know the near future of art.

And art,
there
must
always
be
art.

I want to know the Neal Cassady of my time.

My family keeps on giving me poetry.

I come downstairs, set my little She-beta fish
on the kitchen counter.

I begin to layer on clothing
to battle the extreme of white outside
and call out to my mother:
I wish I were a fish.

Why?

I clasp my hands together and squeeze my face
squiggling-dance type motion with scarves falling off:
So that I could swim like this and
float in the air.

Think of how exciting life would be confined to that small,
glass thing.

But, think away from fish suburbia,
think of the freedom of swim in the natural world!

Okay.
But if you were a fish,
you'd end up in a jar.

Cultivate your sleep.

NO.
I spread my mind.

Lately I've been keeping time by
watching flowers die.
The orchid at my bedside has turned
from sunshine to golden sleep in its age.
The bird has preyed.
I know how many weeks it has been
since I've began watch.

I am
spreading my mind,
going nowhere
but always going.

The personality involved with my human
is exhausting. My brother has said to me
seated in my room looking at the things around:
I'll make it in the ways of the world, I'll get to the top,
and you,
you're going to paint pretty pictures
and give them away for flowers.

I say, oh, we're both poets.

No, I'm smarter then that.

No, you're just louder.

NO
I SPREAD MY MIND.

The flowers remind me of beauty that
will on earth never be mine.
What will be the next collection of time?

People, 1896.

If this movement is going to MOVE
Jazz is going to have to be revived.

It's a difficult spell to speak, the way a flower may perish.

I watch
the older members of my family
decay with breath still in them.
Expired with will at function
fighting off disease
to find disease to be triumphant.
I feel for these people,
these who withdrew, who
banished their homeland
in order to avoid World War.
To get on a rotting boat,
with a child barely at walk
and a womb at full bloom
(who would born to be my Mother).
My God,
he is applicable here.
To work restless days, laying down stone,
building magnificent homes
and coming home to the most humbled of them.
Decades it took for they
to learn the new native language,
and still,
they struggle bitterly with it.
These people who came here empty,
in total craving of a promised land.
Never did they succumb to modern society
clinging to their land by heart and moral by attitude;
these people
did take up god,
hard.
these strong people, who abolished I,
and my most intimate of relatives
with years of excommunication
and excrement disposition
when my Mother had, with peace,
chosen against the church.

I love her to death for doing this.

These poor people
who had to reinvent the hardship in their life
by way of Fake Ultimate Salvation: I swear
I could not tolerate this behavior in myself.
My children,
though unborn,
will always have my word.
My soul would depend on it.

Well, womb begone.
These
grand
people.
What do you even feel about life?
You who are invented by tradition,
a lifestyle full of emotion, and hostility.
I'm sure I understand the making of your generation,
truly, you were born at desperate times
fashioning yourselves as the stone you did lay, but listen,
I have been born on impulsive ground.
I have within my grasp
THE BLINKING WEST.
You must understand, though without speak of it,
all these changes in the world and why I must
be different from you.

I have my grandfather's sense of adventure
without the hysterical wife
who shut herself from the planet outside her door.
Who had to settle with permanence,
the only acceptable reason to wander the outside world
was in worship of the lord.

And for you people in between them
and I:
Shame on your respect.
Never has a single moral
been at clearance to fall.
The three of them going off to school,
My Mother at times taking, and fleeing with
her younger brother,
the oldest one staying
to take the beating.
Never have I seen such repressed people
as the children of my grandparents.
They are practically
inspiring
that they may live these stiff lives,
filled with small happiness yet cast
on the foundation of illness,
and a week planned
around church.
I see their lost souls accepting weakness
that they may fear their lord
and have reason to prey.
I see them at break
and I am broken for them.

Do they truly believe?
I do not doubt their sincerity.

I do know one who lives against his will
with the standards of religion
to be with the love of his life, my favorite of the bunch,
his wife, my aunt,
a soul of genuine kindness.
Who had a shattered heart
within the walls of ex-communication
a heart she did let break
and considered every pain.
Who has the warmest
of all voices.
Who carries peacefulness
with her throughout.
She does possess beauty,
though she follows her community.
She does find happiness
in her life of small happiness.
During the years of disown
I have sensed her suffering:
let us forget who they are Now
for we will have to abandon their souls
completely on the Day of coming Judgment.

I have cried in laughter.

This night, I have heard of further illness,
hence my thoughts of them.
Cancer,
back, the both of them.
My Mother thinks the woman who bore her
to be the strongest on earth
though I have asked her to consider
the way she has attacked her body
at the sights of her husband dying.

I look at them and grave.
I have no sense of guilt for my actions against their values,
but I would have to be emotionless
if I did not find compassion:
it is here, and it is here deeply.

I am most curious to watch my young cousins grow up.
Which ones will stick and which
will revolt.
I will be a friend to these babies and children
who wish to discover the world.

I am further rooted in the concepts of Earth
then what I was taught, once upon a time,
to avoid at all costs.
I, now, am more "worldly" then many
of the worldly people I was sworn to fear.
And I know know why they are afraid.
The world is exhilarating.
I would wish it upon my every creation,
and my every enemy both.
I have fallen for the world.
She truly is infatuating.

I reflect and wonder how radical and judging
I can so easily be
of my extended family.
Those who have shared with me
nothing but
blood.
And yet,
when I do go
and search out this WORLD
I have immediate tenderness
a true sense of discovery, that simply,
I have come out here
to discover.
To find somebody to grow close with
to truly absorb
somebody who could become either story
of perfect stranger or soulmate.

I do not leap to an irrational judgment of them,
sorry.

Though I suppose it will be the world herself to Judge
these God-fearing people at their Final Day (the rest of us will live on, untouched)
for their rejection they will, in return, be gifted with rejection.
They may not die knowing this,
but at life reflection,
they will surely remember.

God will, absolutely, eclipse your every gland of euphoria
and infuse your every chemical
and send you TRIPPING,
My lord! You've been right all this time.

And when I die I will float peacefully
back into another consciousness,
understood?

What a precious grip of my emotions
all this is.
Soft and equally sullen,
though I realize at these stirrings
that in my life I have been shaken.

These people have taught me to remove,
God bless them.

Universe, give bliss to the moon, this ink & this water, my mind and my visionquest. Amon.

Listen (ear)
to the ticking clock (hand gone by).
The monsters of your daydreams
will give to you as flowers (lilies on a gentle hill).

Your feet are immersed in water (indigo)
and your eyes are closed (indigo).

An eye blinks back at me (the whole surface becomes the iris)
and a beam of light flashes from? or through? it (energy).

The full moon is tapped on a pyramid, it breaks
and lets out the yoke of human climax
raining forth, and onto earth.
The side it faces is struck by colour,
intense & dimensional (all these things happen).

Large statements will come from little eyes
(an insect almost swallows me)
and you will see the grace of sympathy.

Hear what the people say!
You may ask further questions now.

I ask of romance.

I see a man at first with his back towards me,
raising his arms with intense energy
looking out at the gorgeous view
standing at the top of a mountain!
I know he is screaming with delight.
Finally he turns and, still with excitement,
comes towards me.
I am left with the topical vision of this
elevated land.

My next love will bite my mouth off.
His breath blows through my lips
and as he does so
spirit-energy exits my eyes.
He is a beautiful man,
but he is filled with sorrow.
It eats his flesh & he sits there,
peacefully.

I look back to see the moon again.
She has many words for me.

what if earth is the only planet with emotion as we know it

we face each other as lovers would
if that were a part of our world.
we put our minds together for conversation
though our minds are always together.

i want to be wild
he wants the wilderness
though we can not go together.

i say to him, i want excitement!
perhaps the most beautiful story of all
would be one of raw,
painful tragedy
in the midst of a gorgeous place
just to be OUT THERE
immersed in the feeling of life
and in the gut of feeling
surrounded by the quieted but tangible
Absolute Superior.

he says to me, then go to Earth.



i have come for this lifetime.
it is my first
life on earth
in which we communicate
as spirit
to human.

his lives here have been of war
of the giving of pain,
of the masculine quality.
mine have been of the recipient.
i have died young, mostly,
i have sinned and been sinned against
while he has been
leader of his ancient tribe.
together,
we have every experience.

you may have heard the song of wind before

there are reasons, in the conceptual aspect of
the word, that our soul has undergone these
paths. with the growth of our consciousness,
we discover. within the world, whichever world
we find ourselves in, there is perception and
there is the evolution in and of perception.
our soul has divided itself, and each scattered
piece is of a certain expression. we carry within
ourselves, our hereby-dimensional self and our
higher selves, a certain expression. the Eternal
that we absorb back into posterior to us being in
this feeling, human state still does not unify us
totally with Creation. it is still individualized,
still of quality. through the simplicity of existence,
we compose ourselves in our spiritual evolution
and discovery of consciousness. it is true that our
very CONSCIOUSNESS expands with fecund
liberation. aspects of the world and of every world
may slip into our knowledge base, and we may
become the absolute aspect of discovery. in this path,
we discover our EXPRESSION. and once, beyond
our lives, we understand and support our certain
way we are given back to the Whole Self. Unity.

Amen.