Looking now through the window of a womb At hands that have touched everything in the universe -- Now clenched in embryonic fists -- The world's been turned to gold Impacted, imploded, blasted inward, Melted, smelted, and refined
"I dwelt among the rivers of your mind."
I have been walking in the empty hills Down under the mountains Through caverns of blackness That echo with untrodden tunnels, Searching for the El Dorado of the blind. Now, look, where cold invisible herons Come to spread their wings In a sky rippled with clouds, And ancient men in ancient clothes Take shelter in the grottoes of the wind.
"The mountains are of gold; The world is a jewel, A spider in a precious web."
Unafraid, he said, I walk through the golden abyss, the fathomless radiance, Singing a song to cup the fragile draught of life. The tiger has become my friend. The dragon makes merry with the clouds, And among the mountain peaks Ancient men in ancient clothes Take shelter in the grottoes of the wind.
"The rivers and rocks are married together -- No one remembers our name."
It's one of those opaque nights. The moon goes down early and young. The atmosphere thickens and hides Stars, hills, trees -- Your voice is out there in the dark distance. Listen, Cottonwood, let's run away together, tonight -- I'll be a leaf that doesn't care where We're going. You can carry me beyond our bridge, under the railroad, through the meadows And into California. Splash by Hilt and Slip through Hornbrook about midnight. Merge with the Klamath in the dark we'll give ourselves up to the rush of its waves and wind through canyons Of volcanic rock tottering with individualistic pines and junipers. Below Oak Knoll we'll yoke arms with Beaver Creek and storm through Happy Camp -- tonight, Cottonwood, tonight. As the cold comes on with increasing bite we'll take the final stretch two steps At a time, And in the predawn light We'll sight the soft glow of endless waves and oceanborne clouds. As light spreads over the Coast we'll look back through the weaving woods -- tall trunks the warp, heavy boughs of emerald-black the weft, with silver dawn like a luminous arch suffusing the tapestry with light. The grey waves, Cottonwood, Will swallow us both and we'll return to lap the shore we came from that gave us birth, To shape with sandy fingers the discarded roots and boles of the rain forest, Drifting North and South along the rocky coast, Wandering with the rain.
Good morning Cottonwood, Freezing today. I suppose you felt it last night stiffening the mud along your banks, Forming fingers and half-moons of ice in the still spots and puddles. The meadow is covered with cheap dime-store jewelry -- She's such a hick. In the east the dawn's a silver disk Where the sun's getting ready behind its satin curtain. Through the outhouse portal I see that it is cold everywhere, And besides your voice (which sounds hoarse have you got a cold?), the first sounds Are gasoline engines. Down Colestine road a car buzzes brightly; Jamie starts the Chevy-6 in his dumper; Shandor gets his generator going. To join the fun I start the Toyota that's parked halfway up the hill full of wood where I left it yesterday after three unsuccessful attempts to reach the yurt. You see, I started when the mud was hard, but with its half-dead carburetor the Toyo took so long to start, by the time I got rolling the mud was all defrosted and halfway there those super-high performance hiway tires'd start spinning free as if the rear-end were blocked up off the ground. pissed me off. At any rate I won't bore you with details, since you were probably eavesdropping the whole time. The sun's out of its dressing room now, and looks like what the weatherman calls "clear and cold with high clouds" Have a nice day -- Your friend, Charles
Grasping fear by the Long, thin edge, Peering down the dark tunnel To sight the obscure, Breath Tautens, Grows Sharp, Colors seem to shimmer At the edge of darkness Or the edge of light.
You're talking and I grow mute. One well-crafted sin And forever after I'm Reknowned for my footwork.
Daisies, lilies, opium poppies -- The unusual arrangement Adorns the room where Twisted melodies play.
Rockets chasing comets, chasing stars, The traffic in the heavens Getting heavy. Let's get down And take a look at Mars, Where voices still are drifting From the lungs of drunken spacemen Who frequent the martian bars.
Silly, I'm slapped silly, Like a clown who wears a frown And brings everybody down, Like a child who can't tell you Why it hurts, Like a man who's playing with the noose, And wondering Is it too loose?
Out here, running with the herd, Life and death, It's a daily thing. Beauty passes in a season -- The long-legged lovely one Becomes the encumbered mare, Hindered by love of young, Unable to run wild in the sunset.
Sex has its terrifying side; The steaming pain of birth, And the duty to care for some Repulsive hairless thing that Only cries and shits and speaks nothing. No wonder babies are killed though I'm not condoning that sort of thing, It's just your mother's voice That says it's cute, how lovely, Oh, it needs a change.
Out here with the herd It's a question of dominance, And who has the means to make it stick. Losers can cry, but "to him that hath," more is given, and to that Poor sucker that's got not, There's nothin' due -- You can take it to the bank.
If you're weak, throw in with someone strong; if you're stupid, Follow someone with brains; if you're A coward, serve someone brave. Then at least when night falls There'll be some campfire where You are welcome, some pot where You can stick your spoon.
I have lost all my friends. I am alone and friendless in the world. I bet you're delighted to meet someone in the same boat as yourself. This world is like a bubble popping. I can't believe in it for one second. Stand back! I think I'm going to disbelieve!
(Heavy metal anthem-style) He's a man Who gestures to heaven Standing straight and tall The fire rains down, Down from heaven, Turning earth into hell. He's a man Who rolls two sevens And makes a hash of the land He's got so many dollars And a five-sided building All right there in his hand. He's a man Mean as his father made him Proud as his mother is, A whole mess of psycho behavior In a Western suit He's a man And he'll send his men to Hell He's a man Did you hear the tales they tell Did you hear the tolling bell? Were those portents in the sky? Are you not afraid to die? The only unasked question: Why? He's a man We should try to understand He's got power in his hand He must rule the savage land.