The
alabaster city gleams in the sunlight
I
am on a bus going to Santa Rosa
Away
from the stinking hotel
They
tell me I am famous, like the Jerome cookies
Streets,
poems, nuthouses, jails, paintings, con men and time
My
twenty years of poems and paintings
stored
away in houses and cellars
relentless
with anger and love
I
ponder at life and the world around me
The
bus speeds on the highway going sixty
I
am fifty-two, live alone, considered some mad freak genius
In
reality I am a fucked up poet
who
will never come to terms with the world
No
matter how beautiful the flowers grow
No
matter how children smile
No
matter who blue is the bluest sky
The
harsh realities of life, that life is mostly a put up job
The
genius rain avoids us
The
lone solitary soul that does her beautiful dance for
all to see
I
seek the genuine leaf blowing in the wind
The
real person tapping a song whose melody
flows
through rivers and time
The
image that dances with stars
The
sun that melts anger and harassment
Years
spent begging and hustling
Carrying
paintings on buses
Carrying
mattresses through streets
Evictions,
lost loves, hangovers, rheumatism, hemorrhoids
For
a muse that rarely pays off
I
must be mad, bewitched like a lost gambler
Down
to my last bet with no carfare or candy
I
am not subtle or charming
I
cannot lie for money or tell stories
I'm
the gray fox some schmuck
The
old pro chasing the mad dream
The
crazy Jew himself
Who
don't know when to quit
Who
can't say die unless I die
It
is all a mad dream
The
race track full of maniacs
Lost
gamblers living on hope and dreams
Tomorrow
is never better
The
same buses full of beaten and tired
faces
I
only know when the cock rises and the crow howls
To
eat, to drink, to take a leak
And
chicken is good to eat when one is hungry
Money
buys everybody, that is why the world is fucked up
That
is why politicians have seventeen faces and speechwriters
And
waitresses wear lipstick
Why
mediocrity rules
Why
poets hang out in groups for
protection
And
musicians disappear faster than flies
And
artists suck the rich quicker than summer watermelon
and
bourgeois children
Why
the communists and capitalists
Use
the same deck of tricks
To
hide the miraculous
The
magic of life
The
wonder of children and salamanders and birds
Wonder
is the thunder
Wonder
is the Spring rain itself
Wonder
is the young girl in love
Wonder
is love
The
concerto
The
hummingbird
The
clouds moving across the night sky
It
is raining again
Light
against darkness
Shadows
chasing the sun
The
sun chasing the shadows
Man
against the night
Man
and woman together with the night
The
day awakens
Let's
sing a son
For
those who chase the night
For
those that dance with light
One
speck of light
No
matter who is light
Light
the unknown
The
unknown, it is all we have
Anything
is possible
Like
new born colors flashing across the Universe
The
road
The
vagabond
The
dreamers
The
dancers
The
unsung
Fuck
the Gung HO!
Byron
Hunt is doing a collage at the Goodman Building
Ed
Balchowsky is doing another painting
Raising
his one arm to the sky
Rosalie
Sorrells is singing a song in Kansas
Sam
Shepard is smiling
Rare
birds are coming out with new coats of color
Rainy
Cass is alive and well in New Orleans
Valentine
Chuzioff is sketching some blonde in Jackson Square
Bodenheim
hustling another poem for wine
Franz
Kline singing a sad song at the Cedar
Kerouac
talking to the moon again
James
T. Farrell chasing a waitress at Yankee Stadium
Charlie
Mingus bopping, chucking, eating a steak
Playing
bass with angels
Wilbur
Ware
Gil
Gaulkins
Bill
Bosio
Al
Delauro
Bob
Bolles
Charlie
Stark
Sue
McGraw
Linda
Charlotte
Banana
Boat
Steamboat
Jones
Jeremiah
Jerusalem
The
light is coming out
I'll
give the sun away
It
belongs to everybody
It's
not mine to give away
Those
with the sun
Those
seeking the sun
Those
on the run in the Chicago night
Those
in jail
Those
in the towers
Those
chasing a ghost in the wilderness
Those
on the road
Those
with dreams
Those
who will never give up
Those
who are learning to dance
Those
perplexed
agonized
whacked
wretched
tattooed
confused
We
are all the sun
You
are the sun
This
world is one
Those
with wonder, you are the sun
Shake
the sun
We
are one
The
moon and the sun are brothers!
Jack
Micheline
March
15, 1982
Written
on a bus from
San
Francisco to Santa Rosa