Santa Cruz Poets

[revolutionrabbit]

the santa cruz poets, the surf of zeros
the tall trees in the santa cruz mountains
the poets on the down town when poets walked
the stony streets looking for that madness to fix, that
bag of tricks, waiting for
the used bookstore to open its vile breath of old
typewriter tombs laughing,

I was a santa cruz poet, a damned word marker
looking for the poetry in the books of bleeding minds
I was looking for the blood of the air
turning the pages of the city,of masks of self- mockery,

we were looking for the great writers and poets
for the jugglers of aeons, and the crazy wanderers
that would help us remember, the words that will
remind us who we are, where we have been, and where
we are going when we get there,

as we pass through the big trees with monstrous round trunks
that contain all the stories of earth, and as we define the green
meaning of wood hearts that are written in ages of circles drawn
in the body of the forest

the fanged poets looking for the blood of the air, looking for
Philip Lamantia, among the bodies of poets in the book of the
streets, in the coffee joint reading Rimbaud in the antediluvian light
deluge eyes sucking up the poems of the pale moon in the cups
of blackest joe, waiting for the dealer of ancient verse to,

arrive at the witching hour, to arrive in a end of history, like
burnt matches of question marks, in cloaks of mirrors at false
dawn, when the burning thinkers lurk in the fetters of mystery
of metaphysical universes hanging by a thread of sanity, they
usher in the grand promenade of arch fiends and jesters, of
tall bearded white tree poets whose golden aura spreads its
ocean dark blood of haunting resonating verse through the
lens of lava lamps and poet lairs, we all arrive at the ungodly,

by different routes,
caught like gypsy moths to the flame of writing that follows us
here, we read the words in the gaudy night of phantom colored
and neon words, speaking a different tongue in rude inflection
, the pale ones arrive in the
curse of time, to spread the obscene language of the utterers,

and the call of exploding memory by the thundering voices
by the crashing rocks when the spume of sea lanterns rises
when the drunken verse makers find themselves on a corner
not remembering how they got there from the night before
all the words they had written, now written in their own flesh
and the library was a labyrinth that had swallowed them whole
and spit them out here in front of the shipwreck cafe of lost poets

[the mingo]

man I was just run over by a tsu-na-mi !

[dadio]

powerful poem.

caught like gypsy moths to the flame of writing that follows us
here, we read the words in the gaudy night of phantom colored
and neon words, speaking a different tongue in rude inflection
, the pale ones arrive in the
curse of time...( fine lines.)

[mnaz]

and then, nixon happened... and reagan... and bush... and, and...

and the seers' revolution, the breakthrough, the shamans through channels to before time, all of it, thwarted... yet the scenes and voices live on so richly in your words . . .

[stilltrucking]

history was done
Rimbaud was 18 that year

I started reading Rimbaud this year, at the tender age of 70.



I appreciate the poetry