for Ted Berrigan, Edwin B. Jerkin, Verona U. Hasben
'It's time to go mad. It is the day of the apocalpyse
the year of parrot fever! What am I saying?
...
Winter crisp and the brittleness of snow
as like make me tired as not. I go my
myriad ways blundering, bombastic, dragged
by a self that can never be still, pushed
by my surging blood, my reasoning mind. —Ted Berrigan
dream's no longer
detail-remembered,
s'blotted, only scraps to poke at -
something about
(o spare me)
a Rumi poem,
a turbaned Sufi hack
at the wheel, a beat
VW taxi, bondo-ed
presto-change-od,
yellow bright
(can't
fool me) ,
drives my
denser body jam-crammed
back seat behind of the DRIVER
my window blacked out aka
s'no seeing 'the Path' clearly
destination long overdue
Return/Reunion
to/with 'the Friend'
Did I make it
almost out of site
into unannounced
dys-tances dim,
diadem-thin?
s'dem
tail pipes
stems
mit ashes,
miles of 'em,
windless traffic
Ejected duly
Street corner
rumbles sub rosa
'Just the thing! '
jerks an
altared Grate
incarnate
incenerate
trace
- dyslexia nervosa
out of body Sub Rosa -
'has
anhedonia
seen my gal? '
Notch a'
sudden,
sullen
bracing
Blur into
frames'
powder
blue
blue
sameness
bright/dinged
(why choose)
yellow-suited
predictable
helmeted men
at war with
pavement 5
stories below
mad to get to
gas, rusted
pipes a'leak,
perhaps,
Karamazov
'mock episode'
hard left turn
signal - blink
blink blink
I BREAK FOR
Ibn Ben Blossoms
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem