John's gone
here comes John
take me by the 12 table
take me by the 5

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Lately it's all silly baggage
foolish rumination:
imagine--putting the carpet down
for an agile teen,

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He's alive, but barely;
after all, the fall from space
was a long way down
and the sound of the impact

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chinga locka changa
chinga locka cham
put him in the back seat
bam bam bam

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Around these parts
her caress is as famous as death.
It's told she holds her men for the kill
and never gets measured herself.

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That I, the undaunted Laureate of the place, daunted in some
Un as yet/ed pre tense of what they see, they be
As if, such where they was
Was yet to be, and then to say

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I wanna make Freedom
I want the chains I want the blood
I want the bones at the bottom of the sea
I want the tribal languages
I want the cut tongues
I want the chopped-off limbs

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If Blues wassa Black Woman
She'd bleed to death before an Ambulance came She'd die alone withem that's not
If Blues wassa Black Woman She'd wear a Red Dress
A feather in her Black Hat with a Veil Sparkling Purple Shoes
She'd Dance to Duke Ellington Tunes & Sing Sophisticated Lady

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WeAre
Chained to a Trail Of Tears WeAre
Tied to the Rope Around Nat Turner's
Neck Our Tongues Are Twisted
Unable to Speak Our Language

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Hangin from a tree Dead hair
Hangin from a tree Dead scalp
Hangin from a tree Dead eyes
Hangin from a tree Dead nose

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The Emperor is stingy. The Emperor is greedy. The Emperor hates
the poor. He hates music and sex. And so long as the Emperor is
on the throne, the subway philanthropist plies his trade, prowling
the bowels of New York City moving deliberately from subway station
to subway station dropping fifty-dollar bills into white plastic

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Leave the city. Go to the mountains.
Live your life. Make your poems.
What good does it do
if no one ever reads them?


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That gorgeous young woman I saw on the subway
last night, the one with the round, erect breasts,

and sweet delicate arms and high fine ass, and oh!
those hips, those sleek legs and thin ankles, those eyes,


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As Ryokan said once:
I was away in the calm
of a mountain retreat
just yesterday.


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My home is in the mountains far away.
No market forces here,
nor anyone or thing
of any importance at all.


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How nice it is to lie in bed
on a summer night with the windows open
and listen to the thunder far away
and listen to the thunder come closer

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Stonehouse says:
a plum tree in bloom purifies a recluse
a patch of potatoes cheers a lone monk
but those who follow the rules in their huts

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To stay here... Why? Because each tree, each brook, each hill has its own name in the native tongue. To live elsewhere would mean not to be able to name trees anymore. In the Petite Lièpvre valley, each tree, brook, hill has its own name in the welche language. There will soon be no one left to remember, and only French names will remain, generic names, the same as everywhere else, and those trees and rivers will then lose something that no one will ever give back to them, something that all of us have already lost anyway, and even if they look outwardly unchanged, a void will grow somewhere inside.

Some mouths remain, that are still able to say the right names. Rosa Lopez's mouth can still give back to the valley what shall soon be lost forever. The whole valley is in her mouth, from little to big, with no omission: aunt Elizabeth's house, and behind the house the orchard, and here the cherry tree, with its trunk, and branches, and leaves, and amongst the leaves, a nest, with eggs in it, and a bird with colored feathers, and those colors in the sky, and with the sky, the clouds and rain, and after the rain, the sun, and above the sun, nothing, and under the sun, the valley. Those words are this valley and no other. And yet, in this language you will find a whole world, and this language and this world will live as long as music will grow inside it, just like music grows inside Rosa Lopez's mouth.
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Through the horn of copper flows

Syrupy

Her breast oil

Stockings made of ice

Ooze along her hips

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to those who have the means and authorizations for traveling with impunity, I say (is that really me speaking?): stay where you are, the more you will bustle around, the more you will retire from the world. I say it again and again: stay where you are, retire from the field / withdraw yourself, become your own apparition. Have a body, incorporate yourself, proliferate in yourself.
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The sea has not only made corpses of us,

Through the cracking of ice, through the breaking of glass, here it comes now, with no fury, marrying peacefully iron and wood, here it comes in due time, here it comes, which we have been waiting for since the earliest creaking, which we have been waiting for during the whole day, during years, since our periods
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