the brush

[revolutionrabbit]

an )





Came a cave day
train shooting out its jaw
winged diamond light neath its claw
aurora rug view graveyard cities

king of moons, and spittoons down
the tooth door, broken guns, windows
busted with no glass, wait in silent
empty looks, so death like, so absolute
in its indifferent abject endlessness

king of moons, and thousands of wickeds
begin and terminate, in written dimensions
shine out through the timeless maze of
lost mirrors rolling into underground
dream sleeps

seek and drag its jacket of suns
down along joker snake arms of shack kingdoms
moons so liquid in candy oceans falling into ruin
rotting hallucinations drift through the alleys
looking for a eternity fix, or just some jumbo
mumbo pills to feed the gypsy weeds
they come in haunted fun house floods
and the floating fortune teller barges

toss rose buds at the laughing hollow dead eyes
that rise up the sideways skies with great Buddha
factories on the wet horizon with no perspective

yet pale injections of wisdom glisten in the words
that never wondered beyond the fortified meanings
attached to them, the ones that fester in in between
places, for want of a king of moons to gather
their shadows and paint the night with beams
of fingers


































I had read his books of poetry, Golden Sardine was a pocket book, I met Harry at a local poetry reading, he was about 49 and we ended up drinking cheap red vermouth together, his favorite, I found out he had been a best friend of Bobby.Harry told me stories about him and Bob, they had been in the merchant marines., and later they lived together in Greenwich Village and hung out with artists and poets in the 50's.Years later when i actually met Bobby one night in Vesuvio Cafe in North Beach, and i bought him a drink and told him i knew Harry, and he got that twinkle in his eyes, and he began speaking in the almost impossible way of his to understand his words, but i got most of it.
Bobby was half Jewish and half African American, he was from New Orleans, He was known as the black Rimbaud in Europe, and had taken Buddhist a vow of silence that he kept until the end of the Vietnam war.I met him in around 75, but i had been living in North Beach area for a few months in 73, and use to see Bobby in City Lights and walking around North Beach, like some wild figure with poetry dripping from his pockets.
Bob's face was like half voodoo magic and half like time carved streets were written over his cheeks as if jazz parades in New Orleans dawns and a face that look deep into ocean waves and saw mermaids and his grandmother's offerings to Erzulie.When i saw that wild twinkle in Bobby's eyes it was the same look i saw in Harry's half Indian half Scottish eyes.

Bobby was talkin in some other world language, it was like his words kinda bounced off the walls of Vesuvio and slipped around the room and told me stories of Beat poets in deep Dave Brubeck Time out of Space night's, the stories of Bobby being 86ed over and over but here he was again standing at the bar, smiling like a Native son that had walked in underground alleys of African masks telling him about the powers of the snakin sound in the music that was called jazz but came from the roots of the belly of the heart of the mother of river source Nile tongue.He looked up at the mirror on the other-side of the bar and reflected on the ten thousand warrior medicine men of his ancestors, and his Jewish father past gave him some sense of that precarious position of wandering tribe.

Bobby laughed and i know he shared this words that last night with Richard Brautigan, and things that Bobby knew, he was revealing now, on some level i just let his words just pass into me, and when he said something about the sun blowing stars into the moon, i saw world changes, and great poets shining stars in in the reflection in the bar mirror like golden tears of ancient rain of his language.We were in the alley between Vesuvio and City lights, and somebody lit a joint, and i saw Bobby dancing like an elf like i use to see Harry do, i swear he disappeared for a moment like a puff of magic and the land of a thousand dances, and then he was there again and the Frisco wind night was his body of light.


H

:

“We were in the alley between Vesuvio and City lights, and somebody lit a joint, and i saw Bobby dancing like an elf like i use to see Harry do, i swear he disappeared for a moment like a puff of magic and the land of a thousand dances, and then he was there again and the Frisco wind night was his body of light.”



”



the king of the dark bird
.

On the great wooden throne the juju heads and tails placed in perfect arrangement to one another, the dimensions to each to each fetish that holds the energy in zones of color and shape,the black and the white have no more then the other yet the great drum sits next to the empty seat with the bird feathers and canopy of stars, rhythms dance all around the silent space that speaks its voices of the animal objects that rise and fall in the voids exist between the games that tell the names as they walk across the board of each piece of the power, that only hollows through the horns and the vast winding tube of spirit sounds that rest in tusks of mountains and ancestor flowers grow through absolute sacred doors that are placed at the beak corners of the lolo land and the directions on eight with the serpent pillars marked with fierce signs, that go running in passages standing on legs of eternal statues and rivers, in the center of the devil like whole the parts open and close with giant leaves and diamonds of wind, the dark heart rests on the chair with zaa-zoo spears and oval zig-zag thunder shields,grass all around in concentric circles flag the clouds rain voices...

this is so also it crashes in thick rum sounds and cheap trinkets of offering rattle with whipping shadows cast through the paper masks laughing at woman mirrors that are hung like gold pieces on the tubes that rise and fall like holy zeros and ones that at different moments sing strange visions that shoot up and down, as the moon floats in the glass that answers the fortune of the fountain, dancing lights hop on one foot with nu-nu nuts from the earth tree that holds the haha heavens and the hehe below worlds deep in High John the Conqueror roots of ash and taboo boo powders of no-no words that wait in the undergrounds for the skies to drop seeds of love.


W.







but, and it is so fraught with life's crossroadesqueness that to even begin it is like doing some series of purification and secret of secret opening and closing of the eyes and all the orifaces, it is at once concealed and exposed in some washing and ash poured like sprinkled with holy water and rum, or playing John Coltrane's Om with rattling bells and wind chimes, sound like rain sticks in metal sax and then jump through the space created...

When i come in, Volcanoes are knocking at he door of king fisher wings flapping that contain the entire moon resting on the foundation of this and all creations, we are entering the past like all shadows cast through the torn veil as hurricane rains sweep the face of cities riding the flood of gateways, churning the great votive offerings of candle flames rising in the midnights of eternal great masks painted on the air with brush strokes brought all the way from Cathai, with flourishes of one hand that whisper the fog blanketed mountain of hollow mirrors that opens like a bamboo blossom in the deep forest ephemeral wandering mists whose spirits sigh on the breeze through primordial days and nights drifting down silent stream rushing toward Tao dots that translate into the other side,

where the names of things have been named in cycles of cycles of ages that are only a feint wisp of dark matter that was only another stroke of the brush of the immortal ones,

that answer to no one, and speak to all, with the breath of openings that lives in a cave in the object of exquisite silences and all is made and nothing is done, where crystal shaped signs were marked on silk skies that live in the deep dark interior of the first sound that formed from the mass of energy that gathered every possible imagination in great bowls that rest on the shelf of the constellation alter, before inert totality texts made the ocean rest on the temple stone in the middle of vast earth mother eyes seeing the stick carved out of the cloud beard where the crown lips have never said a word, except always appear about to tell the story,

the lips like two fishes swimming sideways together around and round.Like two drums each to each about to beat the message through the sanguine village of the stars

[mtmynd]

yas! and the triggernometry of poetry squeezed off another and another but yet one more into the wizard skies soaking in crimson dreams wet with screams and meanings to numerous to control, unleashed like hungry wolves into the mid-nite. yas!

[Arcadia]

yet pale injections of wisdom glisten in the words
that never wondered beyond the fortified meanings
attached to them, the ones that fester in in between
places, for want of a king of moons to gather
their shadows and paint the night with beams
of fingers

you are a fest r-rabbit!!!

(I´ll continue reading tomorrow)

[judih]

revolutionrabbit - this reads like a segment of your book.
?
and there's more?

[revolutionrabbit]

i just tossed this together from some stuff i wrote on RealitySandwich a few months ago and a poem i had laying around, the prosey writing could be in the next book, if i wrote that one.I'm about to send my Word Doc to Lulu, it's been a lot of proofreading, over and over.They still have to format it some more, i have to pay somebody to do that also.Self publishing is very time consuming and complicated, if you are not a techie.

oh, and there is always more.

[judih]

more is good.
(& by the way, i'd be happy to proofread if only i had some time.)

[revolutionrabbit]

if you ever had a novel, that needed proofreading, you know spelling, punctuation, not to mention formatting it for a novel, and all the requirements that the publisher has, and you have to have an ISBN, and copyright, and contacting people through email or phone to do some job for you and or dealing with the people at the publisher, in my case they don't talk to you over the telephone, you might have some idea how complex this process is.

but thanks for the thought Judih.

[judih]

spelling, grammar - check
formatting according to their specs - yikes
ISBN - know it's a process, but Doreen's done it for 'Infinite Tide'
all the other impossible little extra things that can't be done over the phone - triple oy vey

i hear you, revolutionr
it's easier to crank out a chapbook. all control, all the time. just under the radar and over the radar feels good sometimes.
luck to you.

by the way, goldenmyst, on this forum has 3 books out via Lulu. (if you need to commiserate)

[revolutionrabbit]

my problem was that i thought Lulu would be more helpful, i then had to sorta find out the difficult way.Also each publisher(self publish) has their
own way of doing things.Lulu for instance, like i said do not have a person you can talk to on the phone, it's all by email.And they have told me a couple of times , that it is not their policy to help people.So you have to figure out everything by reading what is on the site.They do answer, simple questions, but it really is a distant communication.They have a forum you can go on, but that just seems like more confusion to me.Really, when i actually get this book in print, it will seem like i gave birth.

p.s. see i sent Lulu some money up front, silly me, thinking that would take care of it, mostly.Anyway, it's a learning process, its one thing to write a novel, it's another to get into print.

[still.trucking]

My best wishes for success with your book R. R.



FYI
http://www.studioeight.tv/phpbb/viewtopic.php?t=16440

[hester_prynne]

Finally had some time to savor another of your writes.
You don't need to worry so much about the "book".
You got the content and style. Mostly the depth that lots of folks crave.
I'll be glad to pay full price.
H

[revolutionrabbit]

thanks, poet lovers, not worried about the book itself, that will take on a life of it's own when i just get through the self publish machine.It will be for sell, and all, i always wanted to have a book that i can hold in my hands, and smell the pages, and smell the coffee and other mysterious scents that come off the pages.