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| Craig Moore |
| Poetry IV new |
| contact the poet: nuit@adelphia.net |
| comments: judih@hotmail.com |
| drinkin typewritten drinkin typewritten black joe this nomadology reads like a Cohen like a dress rehearsal rag like a koan a cone like the headlines stapled to his chest like a Dylan like a camel in the room a long way down a strange way down a nomad frown in the noon lookin for that endless moon water hole the long way around Hendrix Daze Axis bold as the pole of opposites bold as wild flowers who grow to the power of love i entered the flashy album cover melted into the pink feathery tree leaves through the card board jiggling it back and forth a little to enhance the effect the tempestuous thunder thwang dripping colors in shattered perspectives Jimi comin on down the clangorous cloud i'm petrified on my little piece of magic carpet somewhere inside of my little blown mind jimi's words sink in way down deep as his guitar shoots feedbacks down my ancient spine, somewhere inside some flit of my experience i am living in the tomorrow or just the end of psychedelic time oh holy riffs flitter on down from on high oh gypsy soul all wrapped in purple and green; i could kiss the universe through the sky, my waterfall, nothing botherin The Poet is Like a Breath i'm allowing this breath to find its continuous flow breathing through all i see like drawing in and drawing it out the art of this non doing this non seeing of all that that speaks in all the words if that all came to me and said anything i willed then the poem would have nothing to say perhaps a pause between sayin what is always on the poet's mind the language has so much to swallow so much to take in and take out like the junkie intent on his spoon makin his medicine ready, droppin the cotton in, givin that little stir the poem will soon bring euphoria the breathing taking on the sip of eternity the breathing becoming one with all that rush of insight going out with the fog the exhalation the horns blowing out there in the mist and the ships pass in the night a little book of poetry breathing on the low table with the guttering candle the bleeding words written by the crash of thunder and lightning by the slap of wild maned waves on rocks that defy time seeing only another onslaught of neptunian god swell green spume and fury the poet nods in the eddies of whirl pools a long sigh as long as the first sigh lingers a deep sigh as deep as the ocean as wide as the sea Dylan Nomadology reading poems with a magnifying glass while the world flames around reading the headlines tacked to your heart like a nomad and he frowns at the noonday sun as it floats in its mirage like a cocktail glass blinking neon letters through the secret paper above the uprising the resistance of pages turning, in incognito hand the reader hardly reads now his doodles in the margins between noise dust and spirit refusing to be cannon shot to many war movies ago and a thousand poems a day later like a camel with the luggage that he used, have old typewriter will travel the sheets banged on over and over till the paper bleeds singing to the mirages between holes in walls like sideways written messages to open a space knowing full well the watering hole is just around the corner moon smile still floats there in the Miro night...becomes a revolution ..that writes with a wonderful ..fountain brush the nomad poet the poet nomad with the words that he carefully choosed shoes chewed how did it feel no direction that don't point to poem ...and...i'll go a followin you Widenin gyre grows wider still as that tyger slouches as that heavy tread rolls closer to babalon, we hear the voice over head hear drone on and on, as the grim light grows dimmer it can't get no dimmer bulb sure holds no candle to the sun as the dim tide unloose the rhetoric we are reminded of pale comparisons to that shining bright one in the rainforests of our midnight hour power on, power off can't get no dimmer can't get much more this old world just can't take it and this poet can't either oh the stars are still blazin and the ripazab rebazab still Kerouacin, the naked lunch still open for flies, and draws down the lies, and oh the lies we been done told oh how we been put on hold this old world just can't fake it no more, and the dimmer it gets the dimmer they are oh follow yonder stars so far Famous Insight going over this rain of written that drip with meaning, word stained like sending letters to the sanctimonious gutter where the insights go but before they pass in the dark night like showers of stars on their way to some other part of the galaxy over haunted hills and animal tracks over railroad fingers pointing to no place we know these falling famous insights like clear objects drifting along to look through, lights on the run splashing us with tears of memory with moist moans and spray of right and wrong like holy water that has gone to a higher atmosphere, so long they dip their arch thoughts into a bowl that is empty of taint, not so quaint, is it? they drink their bitter ones to the dregs, good to the last drop and then they send some more off to the war River that Lasted the written gush green goes off meandering into night's far star sees its own earthy reflection along history shimmering moment sees this ragged of flow water as if great pages are turning churning in the slow gaze and the leaves above shook slightly ah, but the poet follows it down its glinting razor's edge sees beyond the cover of deep silence the nothing's tongue ah great dark swath of liquid forever snaking slide oh languid flame feather time golden phenomenally vague at the distorted edges that seem to toil in some cathedral like painting with chaos of stained glassy bits broken into shard tears bleeding into sunsets and staggered drunken symphonies gyre and retire ah, omen carver in wet tyger bright where does this stone passage ponder in endless stream wave ribbons torn torrent in inky finger trace down avenues perpetual origin, as if nothing is sacred released into sacred space the secret letter that shapes and reshapes throughout ages again, over and over came into being, but rather everything in this confusion of startling hauteur of pearly gates flapping what " can be spoken" I realize that all the grand madness shooting past in flashing sight cycles crescent in its heavenly grasp, flung asunder sees indigo moon floating surface, visions fell like stars rage athwart brighter tyger whipping tail fast and flicker child hooker looks deep into lit glance, the marvellous chance convolutes, still snakes in Nile sway all merely some reaction to a foam a poem scrawled a frothy unfurled language by some wizened obscure living in an eternal mist, haunts these symbols in the first place from this dimension that appeared through the swirling breath exhale the rippling veil as wave of bliss pass the gist, misty like pale cloth of sky slung over the mountain door, naked diamonds rain from nowhere, river that lasted |
| To Bohemian i think of all i've seen through the curtains of sun fingers my fortune teller hands that have folded the diamond thin cards of these earth signs held up to read close for you i think, of all these poems as tramps along the road tired longing for a distance to stay blowing like sacks of dusty marbles through cities of lost and found paradise rolling these faded jaded prestidigaters of the torn words from the crown of rivers and leaves these hotel book clowns floating down halls of the falcon that can not hear that call, yet some weird chanting drifts along the desert doors in poems that haven't been born this day as each one passes in the dusky streets, roughened callus toward some grand shaft of light slammed down through the cathedral of infinite trees we go on rag hole knees to say a prayer of Lorca nocturne, and the tramps of poems blow off the page, off the stage where the howling times gather lantern letters through the mist of ancient breath as the sleeping gypsy in a Rousseau painting by the same name reclines with that miracle orb and lion of transparent flows by his deep glistening head down the wise crack in the wind of clocks whose hands are spinning at the speed of light i have seen poems like dicey prayer books tossed on the park bench of riddles and chance rhymes of reason Bread Making it's bread its not empty flour empty water it's staff of life it's not two slabs and a slap of ham a leaf of iceberg lettuce thin mato slice likewise, art is life, art is how you see matter and light the world, and even if you see the worst and the best the beauty and the Blake bless we have seen the masterpiece rose thou art thou rose petal and we have seen the lone poem scraped on a canvas wall between here and two city's thighs the painting written on shear moon beams shootin thought the paper leaves the bird wings street flight call and wheel about the heap of great candle drops and done wicks seen a torrent tear shining on a radio sky at night so far so far yet so close, so close |