Heir Apparent

Issue #2: August 2012

See You Later In Other Weather | Philip Good & Bernadette Mayer

I always thought trees grew in the ground, but they

grow in the air. The rain falls from the sky or does

it? Weather grows in the oceans and the trees catch it.

We did not measure the caterpillar fur this year. The

wood pile that was being diminished fell down yesterday.

It seems like we are burning firewood 24/7, now that

it is colder, but not as cold as it was this time last-

year. It’s nice to see the roads wet but not frozen.

Nowadays more birds seem to winter over and might

appear under the porch roof sooner than later.

Maybe we can have xmas dinner

outdoors, it’s spooky, it’s midwinter

day soon but it’s raining & still green

We live now in a different place

& it didn’t cost money to move, unless you count

all the polluting things. Many parts of USA

are set up for cars, this is not good

no butcher, baker, candlestick maker

Time to start over, let’s pretend

we can only be where we can walk to

I think I’ll start a movie theater in my house

You make the tickets, I the snacks

How practical these proposals and in the summer

we can show films outdoors while smoking a

non-kosher chicken or beef brisket but

not pork or horse meat because this is the USA

where the hay is tall and the wild turkey roam

not to mention the two dogs that like to

play in the snow when the ground turns as white

as their coats.

It’s midwinter day mud season

I have post traumatic stress disorder

from all this global warning, I’m going to bed

where I dream of a white xmas just like

the ones we used to know but nothing’s merry

or bright today till I turn on

the blue xmas lights & dancing in them

is the aurora borealis & 20 hummingbirds a-mating

in NYC you can order a cooked goose dinner

for the holiday of the birth of the son of god

Welcome, those who worship war, to our happy home

today we have roast dinosaur with slithery lizard slaw

with black giraffe tongue pudding drizzled with

essence of newt & beef cheek foam for your pleasure

under the day-for-night blue skies of memory’s back-lot

As midwinter day draws forward a night time snow event

of a few inches & party goers will build bonfires

sparks will fly and unseen meteors will zoom across the horizon.

People will put charcoal briquettes

in the bathtub, douse them with lighter fluid

& all the Nazi racists will watch & be terrified

This might be how their hell will be made in a household

rife with nonbelievers, ho ho ho ho ho, merry metamorphosis

May the other earths be cheap at ocean state job lot

May foam mattresses rain down on us all

Giant mushrooms in the woods, crashed beer cans, a blanket

or two, bones of a deer, the wild asparagus and a

blue heron. Sometimes no matter what the season

we sense the sea. Yet, we are quite a distance from where

the dolphin swim. Never have we seen an octopus or humpback

whale in the field. Yes the horse corral has flooded

and bears have crossed over but no giant squid or sail fish

Under the bird feeder the remains of crayfish, oysters, scallops and

mussels can be found. But never do we see a parrot or

pelican fighting over food.

So we try to make up for it

by acting whale-ish when we can. On saturnalia

we hoop & holler & do hedonistic things all the time

We’ve even turned bill green into a hedonistic guy

It’s Christianity all the way with our lord’s births

dotting the snow like oysters on a map, virulent

mysterious & gargoyle-ish, the good thing about our house

is you can be heretical, smoke cigarettes & plan

nonviolent actions within earshot of alice’s owl

which eats bill’s rabbits & all the voles of the field

In the midst of this year of the mild winter, another

harsh oil spill spreads it’s evil poison into an

African delta. Pictures from space will prove the true

amount leaked into the ocean & will no doubt be

worse than what the company man tells us

If the 99 percent cause too much trouble, police

now have drones in their collection of weapons

against the public who often pay their salary

For maximum freshness crash all drones into vacant

resort towns & celebrate with a tablespoon of

German speaking angels riding the rails to Prague

Don’t worry about any ice, we can melt it and turn it

into frozen drinks to serve to our dogs who are trained

to pull our sled to the next heated swimming pool

surrounded by palm trees

Let me outta here!

As sentences slide relentlessly to endings

Thus having a middle, so I’ll slither out of here

You’ll never know where I am, I’ll

Be an incognito afficionada of melted drinks the world

Over & over ha, ha, ho ho ho a new year’s acumen

Let’s eat somebody’s crumbs from a vending machine

The earth will tilt the machine just enough

& then there will be free candy for the masses

Between moments of silly string sunlight

Sinking to the bottom of lake whatchamacallit

One language poet was worried about losing

A grip and another was worried about the grappa

The reflection against tree tops never stopped

A wonderful pasta dish from glowing or hovering

Over the table top next to those woven hikers

Taking notice of the amount of mushrooms growing

What kind of mushrooms were they?

My head hurts on the right side, now that you mention it

My head hurts on the right side

Now that you mention righting it

Whose, living & dead, animosity will we

Encounter on the frozen daiquiri steppes

On the way to where the corn grows?

Should we leave anglo-saxon shit there?

& proceed with multi-syllabic notions?

I think it would be peripatetic of us mignonettes, don’t you

Existentially, you re-begin willy-nilly

Without fear of machines or buzz by drones or

People who live in tents as the days get longer once

Again next to a river where once more fish could

Be found and what of the oysters?

The order of sections — cave

Put a foot in it, put a cave in it

A predominant mine of fields to come

Moving past midwinter day & wanting more

Daylight but not because the train is waiting

To take skiers up north to north creek &

When will we see the northern lights here

In the north many hours away to a crossing

Where they check passports & wonder

Why would anyone be going any further north

Tonight the northern star might be

Visible & we don’t hear them marching anymore

Across the sea, the sea

So we ain’t going to march anymore

Ok, ok leave me alone to write on my tabula rasa,

will you? It’s the first day, I walk in the spring fields

Who’s on first?

Into the new year of a year with two twos in it

And winter that only just might get into the

Single digits. And who’s on second? Let’s hope it

Stays above 2 degrees while the sun shines

Before we know it we will be at the middle point toward

The next solstice time

There’s two 1’s too. Oh no, one 1

Thought it was still last year plus this new one

There should be a period of time when it’s both

Like the overlapping circles that show there’s no place

For a sex offender to live, except maybe a boring swamp

& what’s to eat? I guess you could live on frogs’ legs.

If you throw a frog in boiling water it will jump out

If you put a frog in water and then start

To heat up the water, it will cook

For humans though, you have to rip their hearts out & eat them raw

I’m sure you could eat uncooked frogs too, but you risk

getting mad frog disease, just like queen anne’s lace.

At first not only did humans not know that babies were

The result of sexual activity, but they also didn’t know

If you planted a seed, the plant of which the

Seed is the seed will appear & grow. Maybe this was

Because there were no metaphors yet. Metaphors appeared

When people began to understand skunk cabbages,

But that took millions of years, if not more

When marie was born

in Worthington, mass in a hospital in Northampton

It was 60 degrees on December 16th. Now it’s 55 degrees on January 8th

The only difference is this now is not unusual & it’s

Not the January thaw. There’s nothing to thaw. We just

Sit here passively assuming the summer will be too hot.

Better get our air conditioners now like we live in

New Orleans. I think you should live where you can go out

All the time. Therefore we must move to the canary islands,

The fortunate isles where it’s always 60 degrees, but we can’t

Afford it. For me, cold is better than hot, but who cares?

Winter-overing are many plants & animals.

Yes, the weather is a strange with its patterns

highs & lows moving on streams that move

from where they once used to be

Weather history & weather predictions

What we need is a cartoon weather machine

Let’s turn off the hot air from those leaders

that believe the polar caps were meant to melt

Let’s keep writing until hell freezes over

The sad fact is that our friend from Pensacola could

not go ice fishing this season! Apple trees might be

confused and the cows & horses might be acting out

of order - as in the spring replaces winter &

autumn replaces summer & winter takes a holiday

to the canary islands on the oil companies expense

I’ll put that in my bank account

We’ll see how much interest it accrues

Meanwhile I’ll smoke it in my pipe

which I can do comfortably outdoors

while looking at the stumps of evergreens

that got a disease & got whacked like a mob

person who’s now floating in a swamp

or at the bottom, weighted with a tree stump

in a dark place full of recidivist scavengers

And heavy ignorance shall sing below as

other worthy fellows will grow feathers to

rise above those stinky persons dripping with

useless adornments of favors stolen at gun point

From defenseless swamp dwellers who write

poetry in the time not devoted to survival

& in both cases they use chance methods

saying “you send me” to all who attend

Meanwhile they say it’s the weather that causes

all this poetry. It was written about in

all the newspapers - online & off

Without explanation everyone demanded more

poetry about the weather and wondered where

to read it- online or off

The days sunlight remained the same but

the climate changed and with it all the poets

changed their names so more people would

think the world had twice as many

poets as it did before the weather changed

James Schuyler became an international hero

& Dave Brinks claimed Schuyler was really born

in New Orleans where he ate so many blackberries

it caused a climate change so everywhere

in the world became weather-wise

& everyone became a weather poet including you

Then everybody became someone else so all bets

were off & the metaphors got a contagious disease

so we could only safely do similes like:

My heart is like a winter scarf, or

The weather is like a teenager, or

The weather is like a broken toy

If only it were a tire in need of air

we could get free air at the ice cream shop

Problem solved and then we would not need

to write anymore poetry, we’d be free as

the birds of the air plus all the extinct ones

Extinct plummeting, but having sex during,

to the earth in a vertical migration of

grasping claws & toes till a veritable midden

of extinction becomes an unnamed constellation

Before the eyes of history, imagine that title!

So sometimes if you listen to the sunset

it sounds orange with a hint of pink

Sometimes a beautiful sunset is caused by

a very profitable industrial company just

doing its job to create more jobs so people

can take a day off and go fishing, but don’t

eat the fish or go in the water with a cut

It’s like love canal, purple & green sunsets

the cheap house, good for the economy of chemicals

The spoils of the spectrum, going beyond the primaries

to the colors nobody knew existed interstate

The colors that don’t pay taxes, the withheld

colors, the ones buried with the spent fuel rods

in places more secret than extraterrestrial cities

where you can begin your life again in a new way

And if weather told you to change it

It told you whether or not to change the weather

And before the weather changed you told it

Told it to change - whether or not

Not to change you would have told it

Told it not to change - weather or not

The weather did change and you told it

This is the way to begin again in a new way

Weather or not there’s any weather to speak of

I’d just like to say I sun-bathed on Jan. 11, 2012

on the stones by the meeting of the creeks of here

The price of wheat here is unchanged but buckwheat

is in great demand. You are my sunshine, my only

boring, stupid, asinine, decrepit message to the

bent & bowing children who’re not synaesthetic, you know

so we can’t use them for our sensual experiments plus

They sit in a cupola of diadems & wish for a peephole!

Or they wish to farm the land 12 months a

year here in the northeast where there is enough sunlight

Not always as bright as we might like, but the moon hasn’t changed

except for the trash those spacemen left behind for keeps

Maybe next time they will leave this long prose-like poem behind

What temperature is it on the moon today? It can be converted

The temperature of the temple is changing today as

new rocket ships are being designed in area 51

sympathetic to those who visited before climate change

But there’s always been climate change

this is just faster, today it rains, gets cold

snows, so far there’s no icicles yet this year

Watch out! You’ll get beaned by a cube & never

have a chance of observing this flower blossoming

Wait! It’s not a flower, it’s a fast-growing root

to imbibe the liquid the earth’s turned into

so we can start over

For every season there is a turn for every bird

there is a brain, for every customized calendar there

is a planting guide not in need of passports or

naturalization certificates made out of imported paper

that melts in water with or without acid

And the beauteous clouds paint a canvas for migration

along an index comprehended by unknown creatures

& mountain lions, we could start a zoo but

all I see are squirrels & rhinoceroses

I’ll never fall in love again, man

Over on deusenberry hill road there’s a lot of

rich dutch eating hasenfeffer on hilltops while

We plebeians are satisfied with visions of lions

& shadows that resemble dutch guards on white houses

intriguing us while we eat mere mire poix

Mire poixing it, we arrive at Orvieto’s well

To be in Italy and not worry about

getting a pitcher full while the ancient ruins

glisten in the sunshine. For now hold a space

Till we travel again across time zones faster than

the wind did blow today in New England.

What’s new about it? What’s England about it?

Who’s on first? Do you wanna tango in winter?

At regular temperatures, a molecule of air

moves at the speed of light, in quantum mechanics

a proton that’s watched moves differently

than it would, unwatched. Behind closed doors

nobody can see me. Don’t you wanna find out

everything I think, even in the most mundane

instances -- never use that word -- or nature

I am all natural - except for the results of fracking.

What are those company people thinking behind

closed doors? increasing their decadence and the misery

of everyone else? those being mundane moving to the rhythm

of those unseen neutrinos that maybe we could make

better use of during these days of border crossing

Let’s fly to Puerto Vallarta and watch whales jump into the air

Let’s all be decadent because it’s only human nature naturally.

Like a chicken or bad boy being thrust

up against a wall, nay thrown, this is bigotry

treatment of peregrine falcons who now sway, nay

swoop, to the ledges of tall buildings

in New York City where you can get kasha knishes

dance till dawn & take taxis to no destination

If you’re a rich peregrine dreaming of periwinkle

flowers that will knock your socks off perhaps

And in snow storms they cross country ski cross town

never getting into a town-car going to museums

of fine art that might depict the perfect storm.

Once in central park bright fabrics hung

across the path ways - now that must have confused

the birds and what not, what not being

The peregrine falcons, the hawks, the towhees

& the flying alligators not to speak of the bats

the few that survived the white-nose fungus

&/or the cold cardinals mistaken for finches

Once I had a gnostic dog who said all men are created equal

But the dog spoke French, it couldn’t have been

my dog, it gave great recitations of Rene Char

It’s raining dogs and Rene Char, he walks in

the puddles, he opens the window to smell the ozone

Today the fire could only produce smoke as we snore

It’s a good day to bake a banana bread or bread pudding

in the puddles that used to be snow that no longer seems

to exist except the artificial kind in the minds of some

middle aged professors who speak on the radio all

day long with and without long hair turning grey as

grey as the old coyotes hiding in the woods next to

the foothills of the Berkshires where many folk singers

are tuning their instruments in underground pubs next

to high end merchants trying to catch city foxes showing

off their sports cars and trophy wives and furs coats that

they only wear in dreams invented by poets wishing to

be better than any European bards being translated into English

& don’t forget those coyotes hang with

the famous mountain lion of East Nassau

thought not to exist in this part of the world

now on view at Kreutzinger’s East Nassau Zoo

easy to imagine; easier to get to for all of you

Just make a turn onto Bath Township road

It’ll be the only thing there before the greenhouse

Stop at the snack bar for some of Phil’s cajun knishes

Proceed to the rural cemetery & make a day of it

Nearby are the ruins of the famous Nassau shtetl

Stop at the place where the waters meet; change you life!

On your way back, look at the Cohoes falls, if it’s on.

How do you turn on a water fall?

Show me the way to hydro power everything

around here. We could watch the waterwheel spin

see the mills operate again. Create a better utopia than

the Shakers did back then. We could not only preserve

water for drinking & food, but take some stress off

the fossil fuel economy. We can change the grid, send

back electricity. Let’s remove the wires or bury them below

the wind zone. We could build more windmills to spin

in concert with the waterwheels. Let’s put on a show

as grand as the aurora borealis - dawn north wind

The windmills would turn colors as they spin

& mama & papa would be green with envy, red

with passion, yellow with liverishness & taupe

with apathy all at the same time, people would say,

“What is the meaning of this?” We’d answer,

“We’re using a chance method.” & then the sun

Would come out in a polite & colorful way

See? Everybody would rush to East Nassau

to see all the colors, there’d be rainbows

in the woods, we’d have a tourist mecca on our hands

& Phil would sell a million cajun knishes

mountain lion or not. Colors like to be watched

Elizabeth Willis would be the head of the tourist bureau

There’d be a visitor center at the old post office

A film would feature Alice’s locust trees as the stars

Colorful farm films with many crazy crops like

purple carrots & purple potatoes which grow next

to herbs hardly heard of anymore & cold weather green

leafy things. O, we must be dreaming, but not in black &

white. We campaign for all dreams to be in color & 3D - don’t

you see? If one’s eyes are green could they be made out of

trees? And if you eat too many beets we know what happens or

so we have heard sung before by one crazy poet/farmer type

toiling away in the garden to chase away the blues.

In my garden I raise green things

like multi-colored children to annihilate

beige apathy, my soul’s inherited gene

I watch the golden squirrels be acrobats

Occasionally our now-wintering-over chipmunk

comes by, running fast, to beat the spasm band

But this spasmodic stuff is secret knowledge

known only by the periwinkle poets around here

Icky ochre is the warning sign not to become

a begonia, god & all his choirs would disapprove

I’d rather be a sickly coleus weeping for it’s dovelike

lost leaves, stuck in a cold dark house its hooves

kicking the sturdier wild ginger with whom I gallop

off to the rainbow nobody knows is there, behind

closed doors, kibbutzing with Marie, Sophia & Max

Mine is to begin books, not finish them

The atmosphere’s to rain, snow, then rain again

Nothing’s left behind but momentary footprints

of some creatures, you have to take a picture

with your digital camera & date it:

1/28/12, East Nassau

Why not come hear a new musical about fog

Fog on a winter day & summer fog to walk out of

the light into the 5th dimension. We could call it Purple Haze.

How about mood fog that changes colors when sighing &

changes when laughing. The rolling fog & the fog that cast

shadows in three dimensions. East Nassau is not the foggiest

place on the planet. Percy Bysshe Shelley wrote a poem called

The Cloud, but never a poem called The Fog - that would

be by Carl Sandburg. It says something about cats feet.

I guess it depends on the cat. I don’t want any cats in our

fog musical thank you very much.

The cats’ feet in that poem are just a metaphor

for the silent way fog gets into your house

& assaults you! Burglarizes! Rapes us all

like a library full of titillating books

Books we could read -- all of a sudden we’re

the opposite, politically, of what we thought we were

Oh my god, property is robbery! But my bank account!

Oysters are great like rain becomes snow while we watch

passively as a dream about fog that becomes the aurora

Fogs are colorful, women are mad, politicians are doomed

But aren’t we all colorful, doomed & mad?

Let’s have a scientific study on that

Looking at the weather map we see all kinds of

colors and arrows, lines, cold fronts & warm fronts, highs

& lows. Satellite pictures are on the screen and the

occasional local picture from an amateur photographer.

On the colorful, doomed & mad map, what would we have?

Perhaps, this poem should be displayed as example #1

with all kinds of arrows, lines & colors drawn all over it!

For example, the words “scientific study”

would be yellow, “poem” would be a blue-black

white, green & brown word but altogether

the blue-blackness would predominate

“doomed” is a black & brown word, with a touch

of green. If you yell, it’s red-orange

If you feel compassionate, it’s I don’t know

But if you don’t know how to feel it’s blue

The beginning of the week is small & red

the middle, like a rainbow’s orange, the end’s

purple-final like a finch signifies evolution’s

haunch, carefully sliced slabs of pork from a pig

But this is only one man or woman’s view

of the complex complexion of reality’s substrata

Like having clouds in your coffee, or

having thousands of tiny tree frogs hopping

on a wet road under a full moon. A yearly world

news update from our little corner of the globe.

No snowshoeing poets found this winter, just

trackers looking for big cat paw prints. The modern

out of this world for the new millennium poet

trackers tracking without snowshoes dreaming

of new ways to speak about the weather, hooray!

The mountain lion has thrown a pebble

at the window before which I’m sitting

thinking about the revolutionary war

As if there was just one revolution

In the whole world, even in just one lifetime

of scrapping with the generals over lipitor

“I think it’s time for another revolution, ok?”

“Would a revolution be ok with you?”

“Whose side would you be on?” Does a side

belong to a person, the other side belonging

to a different person? Could both sides belong

to the same person? After all, the human mind

is vast as an occluded front, eh? Don’t

get any ideas from god or Walt Whitman now

But, wait a second, where do we begin? Begin what?

The weather is having a revolution. Which side

is going to win? The sun is going to win. This solar system

sees all wars and keeps moving through space like

seeds from plants that some call weeds. They even

wake us up from our dreams like explosions & late night

snoring roaring like cannon fire from the past on

fields now filled with monuments & dandelions, clover

& hawk weeds bursting with candy colored delightfulness.

They seem to address us better than any general could

speak to his troops before battle.

Didn’t your mother tell you the seeds

are weapons -- their plants turn into soldiers

who then fight wars & wolves -- the winners,

the better side to be on -- would be the wolves

&/or the american revolution, unless, of course

you’re british but if a british person fights

wolves, the wolves might still win if it’s freezing

because wolves have great fur coats but the brits

might have high-powered rifles to shoot them

one by one like un-poetic interlopers or the wolves

might be wearing sheep’s clothing but the brits

might be in a Trojan wolf, either way, it’s good

to be the president of a kindly country, you’d think

but that doesn’t work either—the CIA might shoot you

&/or put you in prison with the wolves, where you’d be

eaten alive & nobody would know if you believed in

Walt Whitman or a feeble blurry star, silent night, etc.

Zing ts ves ood think oot you’d be etc.

Now the field is empty of wolves and soldiers

where snow was last year this time there’s nothing but a shade

of brown. Leafless branches draw lines in the grayish sky.

No clicking of the mouse to change such a format that

surrounds us in these strange winter days of living in a new

growing zone without changing location. We can change cups

of coffee into wine and turkey into soup. Perhaps a Bach-like

character could write a new cantata to go along with this

scenario. Ah! How sweet that would be, sweeter than any

hobo wine. So what, so what is the scenario?

What will we grow? Will it ever snow? What’s the

scenario? Strange Bach-like turkeys drinking wine

like hobos in the branches watching out for wolves

and soldiers changing the season’s format like a

mouse making coffee.

Mice don’t make coffee, mice don’t make coffee.

A mouse could fall into the French press

& then you’d have mess, I once had a bee

in my hair, I had a bat on my head too, but never

have I seen even a chipmunk make coffee, much

less a mouse. If a mouse could make coffee, then

a house could, or trees. I wish I had a

capuchin monkey to make coffee for me, while

the hippos would wait at the trough for the maple

sap to drip into it, we’ll have pork for dinner,

creased bacon & humble eggs with our jo. Have

you ever been to the Joe?

We once sat next to a secret tower above

one river that has many bridges that later flooded.

We did not drink at the humble coffee house, but

later read poetry at a jazz bar after troubled waters.

Another time we played whale songs at a secret radio

station after walking to a lake on a hidden trail.

We once went bird watching near shark invested

waters and later watched turtles lay their eggs

after their long ocean journey. Sometimes we

travel above the clouds, sometimes we walk.

Once we saw hummingbirds

fucking in the air. Once

there were turtles sunning

themselves on a rock once

We saw skunk cabbage somewhere

else but here, still missing

their beginning in early spring

There are some things that probably

don’t exist but people say them

because they’ve heard other people

say them, it’s a way of knowing

what you’re supposed to think unlike

the Calvin Coolidge method: I know

they’ve painted one side of the buses.

When my daughter gets called for jury duty

she acknowledges she doesn’t believe

in objective reality as no young person

does unless they were brought up catholic

I don’t know any of these things for sure

After all mice can make coffee & extraterrestrials

Llve in magnificent structures in our backyard

Maybe it’s all a sumptuous feast for you

who is the reader of this now but soon

you’ll be the master-mistress of the universe

selling millions of copies of your bestseller

about how that came to be; some will say

it isn’t true but truth, you’ll say, is an abortion

of what otherwise would be a skunk cabbage

in a tiny unplanned garden by the Kinderhook creek

where there is also bloodroot, wild geranium

& periwinkles galore plus trout lilies & jacks-in-the-pulpits.

And we will all know the truth about wires.

All those wires connected to wooden poles

And all those pipelines running through

the wilderness. On some north American range -

land, ocelots roam instead of in their native home.

What is this land where the rebels took a stand?

Could they ever imagine how small the planet

would grow and now with a hole in the ozone

Truer than the moon being made out of cheese.

They say the truth is out there

Out there among the stars and not

the ones invented in Hollywood

At least we finally kind of made it to the

picture phone - just another way

to fleece the people, don’t you think?

But don’t think too hard unless you think

The thoughts of extraterrestrials.

But how do we know what they’d be?

Aarrgghh! The arghs have it! Emotion

Is passed; come & play with me now

Let’s light in trees, hunt for jamokes

Silently celebrate periwinkle sundaes

& blue teas, let’s have a hibiscus spritzer

with lemon & ice, it’s hot as hell here

It’s cold as a witch’s tit, let’s have it

warm for now, let’s drink black velvets

till somebody wins the super bowl & gets

a ring for museums of sports memorabilia

Let’s have an auction & make a killing

Spending all the money on picture phones to dial

up our most attractive friends, let’s spill

our guts over the airwaves, get on a no-fly list

No boring friends on sunny days

no boring friends on springtime days

in winter. Does the sky have its eyes

opened or closed? Will there be extra

thunderbolts or just the right amount?

We have a storm painting on the wall

but no storms outside today.

Let’s give the sky a super bowl ring.

We’ll start the weather museum

It will be free and it can be mobile

There will be no security check point

at the mobile weather museum.

& for no extra fee you can go to

the cloud museum, a special room

for each type of cloud, cumulo—nimbus

being the favorite & for a real charge

go see the aurora borealis exhibit in back

You can be surrounded by the rivers

of light, this is a mobile exhibit featuring

a local cloud room but do not touch the clouds

or the aurora, you can create your own borealis

by purchasing an aurora kit at the gift shop

Borealis o’er d’oeuvres are available at the snack bar

Try a special aurora borealis knish or sundae!

Make a lasting memory - go to the time machine

in the lobby & instantly be somewhere else!

Be at the beginning of the weather or be

at the blizzard of your birth. Or maybe not

What does Einstein have to say about the weather?

“One need only think of the weather, in which case

the prediction even for a few days ahead is

impossible.” Whatever that means.

Live in the weather moment of the day?

Some kind of mathematical weather puzzle?

Never mind Einstein - what is the weather thinking?

Maybe the starfish can tell us. And that’s the

way it was in Coney Island once upon a time.

And that’s the way it always is - weather is the champion.

We’ll have a ticker-tape parade for the weather

The weather will receive a special ring

That will belong on this weather hand forever

Or for a brief time after which it’ll slop off

In the laundry room where love will be made

By others than the weather in unheard-of ways

Like upside down or overwhelmed with grief

At so many deaths in all the wars of history

Commingling with parents saying “get a job”

Or “eat meat” or “why aren’t you on

The Johnny Carson show?” oh we wish

We could please them but now it’s the end of

The world so who cares? At least I didn’t shoot you

Or blow you up in a townhouse my darling

Well maybe I should’ve never minded Einstein

You are my sunshine, my only sunshine, you

You are my only weather underground

type poet. You are my only blueberries falling

from the sky poet. We blew up the scene with

our weather love. Always ready for prime time

and overwhelmed with poesy. Jack Spicer and

Jack Kerouac had nothing on our American

Weather here right now in the Grateful Dead

hour. Our weather resume’s cup over-flows

with sunshine & moonshine. Let’s add Emily

Dickinson’s bees for good measure. Surely a

weather watcher she would find favor on

our weather porches.

It was James Schuyler who famously said

“see you later in other weather.”

You can use that line with your co-workers

or when you put your children to bed

Who knows? It might turn out to be

your signature farewell statement, &

Periwinkleishly you might become ground cover

on the wet land by the creek where anything

can happen - garish tubular flowers enter

their first phase near runaway wild orchids

bending like trout lilies over the brand new violets

which wink while you pick staghorn sumac clusters

near the modest wild geraniums & ginger

A raft floats downstream followed by the beer raft

Everybody’s laughing cause there’s no one there

except the memory of winking ice crystals &

ice skirts on the trees which refuse to fall

into the drink, harmlessly, along with their roots

Along with mushrooms larger than Katz’s

famous corn beef sandwiches. Giant white ones

perfect to slice for a non-beef sandwich. They say

that the fungi is fruiting three weeks earlier than

fifty years ago. Go figure! The buds are budding

three months early and freezing is very unpredictable

As unpredictable as this year’s budget. Perhaps we

will grow more spinach. We can always use more green.

We’ll search for the magic potting soil & build greenhouses.

Can’t plant a beef tree, but how about giant mushroom

house for all those unusual fungi - the elf of plants.

There is a mushroom called the scarlet elf cup or cap.

We see it sometimes. Some years. I’m sure somewhere

here there are morels or could be. At the moment big

mushrooms grow (former bench site) that, when sliced,

look like chocolate cakes but an acrid powder flies

from them when they are touched. Imagine making

love to one of them. You’d have to change the sheets

for fear of infection. John Cage, who was to become

a mycologist, started eating mushrooms to provide free

food when he was a student. He got sick only five times.

but he didn’t die of that. Often when you get sick

from eating questionable mushrooms, you only get

queasy, but you might die. Best to have a grandparent

familiar with everything that grew around here for years.

Once I saw a perfect-looking morel growing by the

front porch, I thought, I’ll eat it if there aren’t

any false morels. There are 25 of them! I could’ve started a farm!

A lucrative family business to keep us in poetry forever.

But we are anyway. As good as a wind farm to fill

our sails to cruise through life’s journey. Like cartoon

fluffy clouds moving across the blue sky. And we could be

in potatoes forever if blight keeps away from the crops.

New potatoes, purple potatoes, golden potatoes, there

must be five hundred varieties of tubers. And we can

write poetry while eating potato salad under the hot

summer sunshine feeling the sweet breeze as butterflies

float by and when the sun sets we will watch fireflies

dance their dance. The owls will hoot hoot from tree

tops swaying in the nighttime air currents. And in the

morning bees will buzz around the sunflowers as

words are connected to new pages of poetry to continue

this family business of writing about the weather and

other such things that strike our daily interest

Oh whoa wow, wouldn’t that be fine?

But it already is except we don’t have jobs, but

aren’t homeless yet but we have no portfolios

except ones full of poems, a poet we know trades

poems for lodging so if you were as charming as he,

Michael Czarnecki, it could be poems for filet mignons

But wait, a poor poet eats rice & beans. It’ll cost

a fortune to move to New Orleans, but wait

the rice & bean’s free there but you have to be there

What community that has free food & shelter needs

A poet? Write me right away, or else I’ll continue

writing from a place where things cost money &

you need a car to get from point A to every other point

Eggs we can get across the road except when the chickens

are resting, around midwinter day. Hey, darkness falls

one and all, it’s been a snowless winter so far.

Yet, some places are still closed because

of storm damage. Severe weather abounds in

these changing times. So, let’s celebrate the time

between the storms. Some storms we will be happy

to watch from the front porch. But, please someone

buy us a generator. The kind that automatically turns

on the minute the power goes off. Then we can

continue to write without candle light. Who needs snow

unless you ski. They make snow with machines, but

people don’t go to the slopes unless they see snow

on the streets in front of their houses. I’ve never

been to China, but I know it is there. They have a lot

of machines there that cause climate change and

they want to drive more cars than anybody else.

I bet somewhere in China right now a poet is

writing about climate change and the weather.

Politically incorrect it is not to notice

That black people are of different shades,

But politically incorrect could be replaced by

Stupid. It is ok to have fun? Make white friends?

Do white people crave snow more than black people?

The only black person I’ve met in east Nassau is

Kirk who’s also American Indian & likes to say:

“Hey, d’you have a cold beer?” he’s writing a film

Script entitled: “what do yous guys do for fun

On the weekends?” people think I’m an Indian

Because of my appearance & because I like to have fun

My friend Adrian is black but looks white. She,

a conceptual artist, did a piece about passing for white

She teaches philosophy now. Charlotte Cater

A black friend, told me I was the only white woman

she knew who didn’t shave her legs. Once the kids in p.s. 155

wrote of me, “She so white, they mark her absent

in the morning.” In Harlem, I used to pass for Spanish

Because I drank colt 45 in a brown paper bag.

The darkest black people I ever saw were the Senegalese.

Lorenzo Thomas who died is the best black poet I ever met.

Black women have a great attraction to Phil. Once,

Phil, Julie Patton & I were stranded in a thruway store in

A scary neighborhood. Julie said: “just what they feared,

A Jew, a Black person & an Indian,” she was wearing her

African turban. I don’t remember why we were there

Maybe to get some Kools.

Actually we were in North Carolina for Lee Ann Brown

& Tony Torn’s wedding. It was a place to get some breakfast

and it seemed to be filled with Rednecks. They call them

Rednecks from being outdoors all day in the sun. They

being poor white farmers. Now most of the farms are run by

giant corporations. Or farms can be turned into lawns.

Like some mountains get turned into gravel pits. It

can lower or raise your town’s taxes. I heard they

are putting taxes on the weather - oh that’s carbon

taxes to protect the weather. How’s that working out?

In Hot Springs, North Carolina near the French Broad

River the fire flies are big and bright. Some fireflies

attract other fire flies for supper. Others are being

romantic. Nonetheless it’s one of the greatest show on

the world. The forest is the fire flies’ stage and they

will shine for you - brighter than the back of your neck.

Sometimes a plant that’s wet or has ice on it

will wink at me while I’m walking in the woods

It reminds me of a firefly & when I smoke & see

the reflection of my burning ash in the window

I think the fireflies think I’m one of them. If

I could learn to inhale at the same interval of

a fire fly’s mating lighting, I could really compete.

Once during the season I saw fireflies massing

at our front porch window. It was one of those things

you think you probably imagined, it was so stunning

& it never happened again. Now we have many fewer

We also have fewer bats but our frogs seem visible

& audible in numbers as great as before. The June bugs

are still with us & lady bugs galore being everywhere.

Bees too are here; hornet stings are the worst.

vicious, warlike pricks. What is a hornet for?

Mardi Gras parades need their horns

Rebels need their horns to warn of attack

Hornets can attack without warning. A red tail hawk

was hiding in our maple tree today hiding from

the attack of the crows. I once saw a marsh hawk

attack a pigeon in Jackson Square. Once hawks

hovered over my head in Harriman State park.

Evincing that my presence attracted hawks.

Hawk weather forecasts more parades of horn

players attacking tourists near Jackson Square

drinking their hurricanes in the sunshine.

Much better than hornets stinging the innocent.

Or maybe not, better for the hornets to drink

hurricanes then not only will hornets not bite

but hurricanes won’t fall on land, they’ll fall drunkenly

in the sea, out to sea, all at sea, accidentally

bumping into an island where a guy is marooned

with his copy of Langston Hughes’ poems. That’s all

but it’s not the hurricanes that get drunk, it’s you

& your eye, now red & bleary like a drunken hornet

who falls over a table & winks at the bartender’s wife

then there’s hell to pay! The bartender’s been reading

too many mysteries & the hurricane’s seen a lot of

Twilight Zones so the two wrestle till the devil, the

devil grabs em both & puts em in the hurricane’s eye

Out of which there is no way, even in hell

It’s all downhill from here in the place you & hornets go

At the end of an episode you’ve been lucky enough to see

the t.v. your uncle got, a t.v. full of death’s doormats

& hideous clovers bending over fields of stations

of the cross lining a creaky bridge under which a troll

lives plotting even more madness, impetuosity & mischief

than you ever dreamed when the red light was put

in your scary bedroom with all its camouflage quilts

One’s personal landscape in the cityscape now

replaced with a country view. A different point of

view, a different attitude on gloom, sunshine, snow,

rain & mud. We need a new outdoor thermometer

to monitor any extreme conditions. The strange

soupy bebop weather to soothe the soul. The stormy

weather of one’s life. The reclining on a day bed

viewing the sunshine through a back porch window

weather. The it’s not time yet to sleep in a hammock

weather. There’s no thermometer to gauge the

temperature of this here spontaneous writing. &

what of the in between time, whatever that means?

Two’s impersonal sea environs out of the country

than already dislodge without what you can’t see

in the city, it’s always cheerful in some cities

until the slush appears, we don’t need to not know

the temperature when it’s -56 degrees, the normal

clear classical soupcon unsettles my zircons

The calm soups of a stranger’s death, getting up

at night, but it’s not your bed! But I can see you!

Oh, higher power, what should I do?

Get a thermometer? Is this writing somewhere else?

Not--dogs take up the spaces, making things remain

Yet I sit here, before a locust tree, freezing.

Language is what we speak. There is no painter

that speaks landscapes in words. Here before an open

notebook is nothing but weather. A new weather never

experienced. Weather about sex & money & songs.

We point telescopes to the night sky - trying to find

what happened beyond the nighttime clouds.

Let the scientists run the government not the church.

The church can continue to have their ceilings decorated

They can employ as many artists as they wish

to depict scenes of the sky up high. And we’ll make

amusing little books from another point of view.

I took out my ocean notebook & made a note:

Never write books that are amusing or in a language

writ only in bebop or alizarin crimson, not ochre

Not even ochre, the opposite of language is overflow

like in a trailer park, the opposite of word is drow

You can’t fight city hall. Sex weather is weather

inside the house, in the activity room, to be exact

where the Peruvian hanging is now. Wagon, orange,

rooster plus doll spells word in the right color

You need a color printer on you already costly

Thingamajig, that can be an expense on your

Be bopped soowack thermometer smurf toodle-ooing

anti-city thump field of dreams, sistine hovering

over the vactions of the diddly cermamics et al

humpf! What squat intermingling centers on the catwalk?

When the widow maker motorcycle sounds like the wind

Some jazzy weather machine can sometimes cause harm as

a cold wind blows from the edge of the creek & the

not brown silence of the field awaits the Saskatchewan

Screamer. Lucky for us the grid didn’t go down.

We can hear radio updates on the winter mix meltdown

going to a moonshine farm beyond rooftops into a

Shoofly pie party. Pies from the sky for the masses

Fill my cup with moonshine from the space farm

Grant me more wishes to help the fishes. Please don’t

break anymore dishes. The Screamer will break the

Silence as the wind gets meaner. Let’s all yodel like a field

Holler. We’ll wakeup a weather dancing performer.

Wait, Saskatchewan Screamer, I have to put on my

wakeup makeup, again the sun shines & it’s snowing

No action here but the guy who bought the field

(from now on known as GBF) pulled up some old logs

from the Kinderhook creek bank because he likes us

& wanted to give us free firewood, he’s showing off

the huge equipment he either owns or rents to bring

the logs & tree trunks up, this guy’s loaded, his penis

must be huge with lights on it to see into the dark

corridors of the female stuff. I’ll bet he’s got a

generator. If the price of gas seems to be getting high

think of who colluded to make everyone need cars, thus

ruining our bodies, lives & landscapes. Just now

there was a car in the field along the melted snow

I’m going to walk to the butcher shop now & get something

pounded, while watching the butcher’s bloody apron

It looks like the rising sun m’mere, say after me:

The GBF has no mother. When he was a kid he built

a tree fort in the forest and then the Rabbi made him knock

it down. Now he’s some kind of neat freak who needs to remove

trees from the perimeter of the land that he bought with

all his disposable cash. When he builds a bonfire of the

brush maybe we can throw in all his cash. Perhaps, the

mountain lion will come and bite him in the ass. He must

think this really is the foothills of the Berkshires and wants

East Nassau to look as fancy as Stockbridge. He should have

bought Hoags Corner’s Tavern and reopened that. We

could be eating pizza and drinking draft from the tap instead

of listening to all his machines.

We’re just jealous. We’d like to have bought the field,

have disposable cash & many machine/devices, but not no

mother. That’d be horrible. But we grew up on kibbutzes

So it don’t mean a thing. Nor does cash & machines but

to my significant other they do. I wish I could buy him

all the cash the Florentines had to buy limitless brushhogs,

bobcats & caterpillars, we’d have to build a shed for all

those machines that look like something living like a

farmer, even cars have eyes, the bumpers can be the lips

& the horn the nose. Tending to their machines, those guys

went out in a mini-blizzard, mini-whiteout we saw from inside

the house into the field that got bought, changed hands. This

field-land’s been here for a while, doing fine, without you

or anyone buying, then owning, it. It the field, now flattened

by bobcat. A field, you know, behaves differently when

watched. I watch the gray sky for signs of bad luck.

I hope we’re not too jealous, because that would

be a sin. I’m sure there are other more glorious sins

to embellish. So it goes for the cycle of life of a field.

We might need to wander into to some other field

& glean from it what we may. And soon enough we

might find ourselves visiting the Green Mountain

state. We might have to meditate without those colored

rooms located near Rocky Mountain National park

in another state. Or we might have to imbibe the elixir

of life. Now where did I put that philosopher’s stone?

How about some home grown philosopher’s stone

with a nice tall drink of the elixir of life - would

that be a sin? As the sun sets a bunch of fast moving

clouds move eastward and out to sea. They seem

to do whatever they please!

Dear Mr. bobcat, did you see the mountain lion?

The moose? The tommy gun that grazed my knee?

I think therefore I search for catamounts, eh?

Evil are greed & sodomy in the 14th century

Evil is putting milk in your coffee, evil

is peer pressure, just kidding, evil is the bully

Evil is not being me! You see? Simple as 1,2,3

I’ll be dammed if you say that, but the jack-in-the

pulpit, I sit sideways to taste a handsome wine

It reminds me of anyone with a penis & powder burns.

People love to destroy things it seems.

They like to pollute the streams. I had a dream,

but even though I might not own a mountain

top I can sit there and watch. The flowers will find

a way to return because birds shit everywhere.

All those trees leave a lot of leaves behind and

the wind blows them around. It’s amazing that

people can’t agree.

If I am black or a poet, I am not “we”…

We am not I, I’m sorry that’s the way it is now

After all that evolution, what became human wound

up being differentiated to different kinds of humans!

No one would believe this if you told it at the bar

The kind of bar where people are drinking booze

you forget the way they’re human isn’t ok

Meaning you’re loved & make a lot of moolah

Even your mother won’t love you now if you didn’t make

money. Do we care? We being who? It’s just me & maybe

you it began with wriggling little creatures

& came to an end with fear of the end of the world

I’m sorry if I seem to want to read a book about

paleontology, witchcraft, or psychiatric disorders now

All that jazzy knowledge and more found

in books. Holy cow! All those weather watching poets

writing. All those folks writing at the same time as

the universe exhales. All those people being

different and yet similar. Is evolution changed

by power plant failure? Did the planet’s alignment

make a difference? Are the whales watching us?

Will the mushrooms grow as large as a house?

Stay tuned, don’t change the channel.

But don’t ever watch the Oscars unless there’s

a party, an Emmy party where every body

who watches gets an Emmy. People pay you

for entering NYC. There’s no billboards

In Rio de Janeiro, a bow-and-arrow-shaped building

In Brasilia, we can be there in a jiffy in my jet

My mother, the mountain lioness’s proud of me, amabo!

Don’t slip in the mud, meine sunshine! I’ll enfold you

you will fall softly on my mushroom cap

into the heavenly arms of our butterfly wings

We can go mobile to store front art world fun.

We can make poems on an old fashioned letter press.

Have hot sake and eat chocolate. No need for

tractors at this stop nestled in the mountains.

Nothing is off season here even when the hours change.

Rocks never take a day off. Different locations have

different minerals. Humans alter them and turn

them into chemicals. Banks preserve their facades.

When they don’t replace the sidewalks grass might

grow in the cracks. And gold coins will fall out of

the parking meters.

But still, everything is not hunky-dorey

We have no money to speak of & now it’s snowing

On the last day of February, pissing off

Bob Kovatchik that the record is ruined

It hasn’t snowed all this winter till today

Leap year, fat chance, we saw the Sol LeWitt feast

At Mass MOCA, entering a room via the John Cage/

Merce Cunningham tunnel/bridge full of random

Music not ordinary sounds or the sounds of signs

There’s a sign place with a sign saying: free signs

Those free couches on the roadside: don’t they get wet?

Is everything free wet? Tweet me.

Leap year snow glow not unlike

a white on white Sol Lewitt wall design. The

yellow line down the center of the road disappeared,

but we proceeded without fear. All lines on the walls in

the museum will remain for a long time. The snow

will not remain for a long time. I never tweeted

anyone in my life.

Tweet me anyway, how do you tweet?

Grow up! Today it’s dripping like a tweeting

Wait a sec, do tweets drip? I know drips don’t tweet

Unless you were calling a human a drip, he might tweet

“tweet” would be a good endword for a sestina, so would

“drip” a 3rd word could be “icicle,” 4th “disappear”

“crepuscular’ 5th, and “Poseidon” 6th

Tweet drip icicle disappear crepuscular Poseidon

We should change crepuscular to “Sol LeWitt”

Now wait a sec my seafaring lady of

the sestina, don’t get all Oulipo on this colabo.

This here is already celestial. And the red winged

black birds are returning. It’s the other side

of winter. Windy poetry readings in the park

are upon us. When will those lilacs bloom

in the dooryard next? The economy of free

air travel, clean bed sheets and coffee will

Compete with our herb garden of lovage,

parsley, basil and chives.

Just because oulipo adopted the sestina

doesn’t mean that prosody, which is mathematical

becomes oulipean, don’t put the cart before the horse

Long before the ouvrir literature potential was the

sestina, living uptown all alone with 6 end-words

waiting for someone to encourage it to move

to meet an eligible man, perhaps to change the words

to become a routine, though feared exercise

in the academic poetic stable of former bucking broncos

named Poseidon Tweet

A woman who seductively drips

like a fulsome icicle

racing on a bicycle before it disappears

into the wall drawing by Sol LeWitt

oozing out then appearing, just like Mr. Poseidon.

Who was that had a sea monster attack Troy? Poseidon!

Today if that happened there would be many Tweets

I wonder if earthquakes ever mattered to Sol LeWitt

It would have effected his drips

But that’s ok because his wall designs are meant to disappear

just like icicles

If icicles

are blue they come from the sea of Poseidon

Yet they disappear

as fast as tweets

especially during global dripping

Did you ever see Autobiography by Sol LeWitt?

Autobiography is photography by Sol LeWitt

Something fantastic to photograph are icicles

Make sure to capture them before they drip

If the ground shakes blame Poseidon

When the ground shakes should you tweet?

I wish all tweets would disappear

Disappear like snow disappears?

If people get very stupid, there’d be no Sol LeWitts

But nobody would ever be too stupid to tweet!

Your tongue might stick to, if you lick, icicles

& while it sticks, the wrath of Poseidon

will turn the wine-dark sea into Mr., Mrs. & Young Drip

And out of the sea appeared the Drips

And before their eyes the sea seemed to disappear

And was replaced with a statue of Poseidon

Lewitt line designs were seen in the sky

Icicles were coming out of the ground

Tweets of new born birds were heard

As Poseidon tweets about drips

icicles disappear, becoming bicycles

Who cares? It’s just an idea, like Sol LeWitt’s