Leaps of Faith, November, 1978, New York City

Patience. Patience. Reflection. A strange faith in a moving center. Sense the field The center plays in and through. Find the certain centers. Touching one and then another. Each move demands a leap. Each leap demands preparation. Each preparation is somehow not sufficient. Each leap demands self-confidence, self-respect and faith. Take these leaps of faith! Is this Heidegger? Is that how it's spelled?

 
   

Warsaw, Poland January 1979

Old tunes that play now, music roaming about the room, bar-mitzvahs in a rebuilt city and synagogue, destroyed and reconstructed. Systematically destroyed by a sad man and from the rubble life! Out of complete insanity and destruction, life. Still, life. Dust and life; there is tradition. I work for it as I turn against it, turning. Carry it out carry it out. Weights and measures and undetectable scales and devices.

Dark handsome Poles, are they Jews? 6,000 jews in all of people? All of Poland. I'm a Jew. I'm here, a person, a people, a jewpeople, Jewish man. Jewish face and hands. Man. Jew. Human, man, Jew.

I see drunken men fighting and knocking over tables. The musician hits a drunken man in the Back with the neck of his guitar. Drunken fists can't hurt. Only waste and toppled silverware. Stop drinking, stop fighting, men. I've seen the waste before. Where is the responsibility to Yourself, your life. A life: I am reminded of the drunken face and tired beard of my father. A Drunken Jew Man, a man and my father. Drunken and wasted.

Not I, not I, oh no!

I grow with fresh air fruit earth, sun and love given and received. I work to see hands firmer and strong. Young heart pulses fast and red. I await a new and unknown dish. And the face of Patti Smith is not hers. It is her face, yes It is my cousin Ellen's face more than Patti's. And the love in my eyes is for Ellen. Perhaps by now she has her new place in Brooklyn or Manhattan. It doesn't really matter. Children dance, 'schmattas' on their head. Children dance. I'd like to dance with children's dance when I return. The children: work with the children. It is essential for the heart and soul of our futures. The world can explode and children will raise it again: "naszey gastronomi zawsze smacywi." Black boots and rose schmatta. "Kotlet wp panier frytkami, jerzyna I scrowka, herbata. Bye-bye!

And a glass of tea cracks open to me.

What interest have I? Not in American co-option. No. In reach. I'm interested in the distance it takes to reach and the path of the reach. The path of the gesture. The movement's path. Grasp, grasp. Take the atmosphere in your hands and let it sift through your knuckles: air, air, Air, air, air, air, Polska. Kangaroos and Krakow's Pope. Responsibility and the Litvak Land. Herbata, again. Only my fatigue wanes now. My body flexes the pulsing brain.


Berlin 2000

   

Covenant, New York 1978

This covenant shall run with the land. The rumble of Peter Rose. The rumble of the plains people. Whistles. Whistles. The rumble of the American plainspeople. Outside. And Tossing. Firing. Tossing. Tossing long light wood of long light wood. That rumble. Can you rumble of it? Dream. And feeling the dream in me again. Found its meeting place, in the smaller place. Languages and tubes of air and life came through the chest. All the way through it and out. Grounding myself necessary. Slept there last night. Starting my way on it. On my way. On the way. Which is my way. You can go on it maybe. To our times and the time before that too. It is the relay. Relay through the run of life. Our run of life in these woods. Running to our town. Loyaltown. Loyaltown, U.S.A. The legs are rattling. Psychotic points of tension. You deblock them. I have. Out there. They go. If you want to keep them. Go ahead. They do go. Through layers and sections. Dissected, embraced and become deep places dancing. They fly, too. Feeling the ground below my feet. Oh Ground. It is you. You will have me. For waking. That grounding. And my work. Ho, what. Ho, ho, for that. That and for that. So exhausted but energy still. To stop and what after this? To a forthcoming. The act. Forthcoming. Service of Actions. Construction of activities and practical meditations. Practical: As a service to the meeting of one's life. Questions. Questions. And more Questions. Passion Play. Total engagement. And still to still. Be quiet. Clarity and measured poetry. All the way to Spontaneity. React.


Berlin 2000

   

Day of this word

The time flies by in the day of this word brings nothing but wetness aboard what? It's not Confusion, just connector, just transition, loss, walk, to it, what about refusal. What is it? It isn't that, examine with full detail, disclose expose myself to myself and don't be too hard, don't be too proud. Oh don't.

 
   

Simple and Clear, fall, 1979, New York City

Simple and clear. Leave it be that way. To wait patiently. That is to wait and be waiting, Waiting and not waiting. Waiting. Sitting and standing. Standing and turning. Turning and Walking.

For Arthur, father: young man, your son, me on the bus now in the direction of your home. I wrote a little note years ago and now I write another.

Son, man, you, organic father of my man calls this meeting between us now. I bring myself Along the New Jersey Turnpike with Trailways! Trailways! What do I bring but a peaceful Blessing, the time of now and reconciliation. Passed the airport where the planes fly. I am what I'm doing. Writing. Opening the passageways of heart and breadth.

Oh, memory! Association! It can be a dance. A dancing writer. A working person. Seeing the factories and the larger ships. And simpler still. Stretching. Stretching a distance to build a bridge. With a Clasp. Hands. A hug. Walls fall down. A bridge can give way back and forth. For this day.


Berlin 2000

   

Women eat laughing
Miskolc, Hungary, February, 1979

Women eat. Laughing. laughing. laughing. Laughing ladies at the check-out Register. Laughing. Laughing. Laughing. Strutting and laughing. Sweeping. Sweeping. Sweeping. Military man dark like me coolly stalks and smiles, military. Women with smiles and me hot spice of goulash across my lips. Black boots for Military and white waitresses. Black boots. Black dog. Black tea with lemon, Was Miskolc. Miskolc. Miskolc. Tea is best with lemon and sugar burns brightly hot water orange-red gaze of surface and silver kettle. The bed was comfortable. I toasted before this evening outing. Four women, four men at work. Smoking Drinking this espresso prepares to my tea warms itself with me. Two cups one Kettle no place finer than here. Lazy solitude shared hopeful in social life. Together SERVING and being served tomorrow tomorrow.

 
   

Light blue sweater
Budapest 1/ 79

light blue sweater charted my way with plastic sack for "l&m" cigarettes white turtleneck sweater. all these hungarian newspapers. flap. sleep, sleep, sleepiest in budapest. write. write. write. write. miskolc. studying, studying young girls but no light blue sweater. no one sweat as much as I sweatered last night at the polish border my arrival one day overdue roused from my couchette last night early morning polska border. falling, falling at my risk and depleting my funds. train ride money a place to sleep and back to budapest. ticket. ticket. ticket to milano. where will i spend the week-end? there. there. there. there. there. there. the cleverness of a long distanced tickets in hand. starving isn't a problem is it? but writing: is there music, words. never ever give the pen away to the konduktor for good. the tea was warm express express the poles were warm. we left budapest day left 1700. i cleaned out my green sack free of brown and black bread the tastiest crumbs. don't read the newspaper. rock my arms off and my legs across, across. the deaf mute woman on thalimann street gestured me to run run run run run run away. no sleeping there even though the polish mother and daughter did before they gave me the address offered with exacting bus directions which i forwent to whim and intention but incorrecting locals stern-faced day old beards. i've had good fortune and more. hotel this hotel pannonia is being renovated in eastern hungary freshly painted walls in my room in the hallways. the floors have just been sanded, polyurethaned, and the man that was going to take this last available single room without a bath decided against it. capman, manhat. fortune sheens rain subsides mist and bright fog throught light, light, frozen snow, ice, park, statue of woman with flower wine, bird on her shoulder, little shits stand five times their size little bird. village houses freshly touched book, soft and easeful. this room and red cape beside bed with green criss-cross blanket, hungarian indian rug, that's not it, angle. what can i see with this peace in my body, face motionless scrawl of pen, criss-cross sanded floor, criss-cross floor, floor. floor for the dancer. chair for the writer. bed for the sleeper. sink for the washer. mirror for the images. brusher, closet for the hanger. miskolc. place of pauline's birth. pauline. pauline. roth. peppy. roth. rose. roth-her. the pen continues, but the pen bubbles ink all over fingers. fingers serenada chocolada czekolada dovidzeania shared pieces with poles enroute to berlin sitting in eat room in budapest. they live in warsaw. mother says i'm a good boy traveling all around. i was ushered after with strong love by the mostly man-boy mostly young woman in lightest blue sweater, white turtleneck and jeans. green overcoat hung on it'hook. we shook hands. we kissed with out hands squeezed lightly. we loved each other intensely for a trainride budapest-miskolc on the platform i turned again, dancing in my stomache and we waved smiles of fresh eyes and youth. fortunate son of an unhappy man, for me: a breakfast card to earliest, earliest, early at six. i'm sure i had the best and hottest ghoulash in miskolc. rain mist fall big bowl with slice of bread and expensive orange, hot soup, potatoes, meat, carrots, back at the hotel for tea. at the ghoulash kitchen women with the shortest white skirts turn the chairs atop the tables as i eat. laughing. laughing. laughing. laughing. laughing. laughing ladies at the register. laughing. laughing. laughing. laughing. laughing. laughing. strutting and laughing. sweeping. sweeping. sweeping. sweeping. military man dark like me cooly stalks and smiles, military, women with smiles and me hot spice of ghoulash across my lips. black boots for military and white waitresses. black boots. black dog. black tea with lemon. was-miskolc. miskolc. miskolc. tea is best with lemon and sugar burns brightly hot water orange-red gaze of surface and silver kettle. the bed was comfortable. i tested before this evening outing. four women, four men, at work, smoking drinking this espresso prepares to dose my tea warms itself with me. two cups one kettle no place finer than here. lazy solitude shared hopefully in social life. together serving and being served. tomorrow. tomorrow sun's rise and morning's life. westward and westward still. miskolc is further east than warsawa is that right?

 
   

Once frozen toes
Warsawa 1/ 79

once frozen toes and fingers in a heart furnace of tea and honesty. chapped hands a little lips i came with trains bridge and black turning. light early morning in my pants. something we could move together. the morning is at rest with itself and myself. we're spending our morning together. morning. afternoon: green pack carries food. bathed washed what was the dirtiest batch of hairs twice, thrice. washed my body. i didn't wash away the bay. brushed brushed teeth and face and hands found cream for the chapped lips and hands. napped for two hours. green pack carries food for just in case frozen away eight batteries. bye-bye. green pack for brown bread, black bread. i almost got killed by trauojawe looking i only one way. the konduktor had safety anger in his polish voice. michal asked about the flying train and dobze? dobze. bardzo dobze dancing dobze can be spelled correctly. the military drove me to zatoka gdanska as i walked into the frozen tramway track waiting for 50 after 80 left me off, certainly not until sunrise at 3 in the morning. sit down, fire boat, sound boat, waving with laughter to sweden to the north and memories of mildred way before me. laughter thores the coldest feet and they smile. silence, only hums and fewer horns. the quiet boats in their bay. nowa port. nowa porta walking back following instinct and sound. what is a road? with the help of a one-eyed man to find 80 tram and the warsawa express back to town. black bread, brown bread, cheese, mustard, apples, karvassa, czekolada and the hottest white raddish out the door. the green pack carries food for the trip. away felt like a local kneeling beneath the tramavojawe in marty dom scurrying with strong legs to feel my pack with food. life here life here. warsawa night and i'm dancing warmly pen past morning, hot raddish, strawberry preserves, shaven face and clean hair. when fatigue calls take a dancing sleep, couchette couchette krystyna here now and michal took the black dog. warsawa, warsawa leaving to return.

 
   

The arrow on the page
New York City 4/ 78

The arrow on the page moves your eye to the next word as if you were on a conveyor belt. The arrow that pierces St. Sebastian too? Oh, no. It's more the dart that I think of. Dartboards are circles. I throw the dart at three or four boards. I throw the arrow tied to a string a moving conveyor belt. Make a point but this is not research I want to be a receptacle too. And hold the dart board cocks way and penetrates the board. The board is a receptacle. The target. It's a dynamic circle. Going in one end and out the other. Both ends burning. The arrow flys and I'm really here too too too too too try and say the speckle. Wait oh. Tape the image down because it's to be marked. Marketed. Marked on the floor with the tape. I want the image of a target projected onto the bulletin board white: in order to play throwing a dart at art. But I'm here to talking so of the human possibility. I stretch my face and oval my mouth. It is work-in-progress. We do have 3-in-1 and I stopped working solely on to, with my body in 1977 to discover the cockcunt head in 1978. The cock that we all have. The cunt we all have. The head see that cock and cunt in you and let your head rock gently accepting their presence. It is 3-in-1. There's no adversity. For me to be fertile I give birth to this human possibility. It is work-in-progress. I want to reach with the arrow and receive the dart. Let me receive the work-in-progress. Has the head's work, in mind? Let the cockcunt complacently greenly decapitate the head and resettle it. Present, all again. But the decapitation is necessary I've found. The life is not in my head. I want to tell not of Shem and Shaun. Hithering. Thithering waters of. Night. Night. That all did. Re-mind my human possibility of the Joyce. But not reflexive only. Flourescent paint was on my mind when I looked at the yellow bicycle frame on the wall and came to see the Delaunay satyr sitting on the grass at the Saratoga Festival; his circular visions, circular ruins. And is it true, I doubt it completely that schizophrenics are fascinated by circles. But the snake may eat his tail or eat this tale. Vick's Sinex nasal spray take this idea and let the decongestant eleve my head up. Up. Up. Up. Up. And this is no art movement. But my brain reality meshed. But not synchromesh. There is hard skin and soft skin. There is a wheel with spokes. There is a dart board. There are four of them and Jasper Johns slides there is a cock cunt and heads that rattle on shoulders. There is that human possibility I feel that 3-in-1 unity. But do I feel it only one place at a time. Fertility is right. Write. Write. Write. Write and that obsession is something I tried to tamper with lightly. I bacame skeptical of my obsessional pen: thickery, mickery. The activities present themselves at once. Fusion. Fusion. Fusion. Fused in time each dart board corridor. I'm taking away my pens. Pens. Pens. Pens. The head flicks from the thumbswitch pez candy dispenser. The tasty idea.

 
   

Freeport, New York: the red van, 1977

I left St.Luke's Psychiatric Clinic in the Spring of 1974. The story has always been extremely Difficult for me to recount and only recently did clear feelings of despair and guilt become necessary for me to express.

My mother was living with Louis Martinotti and my sister, Jane. Louis was a house painter and drove a red van. He carried his painting equipment in the van.

Louis was originally from Argentina. He was involved in radical politics there. He was an anarchist. My mother loved him. When I returned to Freeport and their apartment it would be the first time I lived with my mother and sister for several years.
Louis didn't think that I should come to stay in the apartment in spite of my illness since I had lived outside my mother's home for quite some time. I shouldn't come to live there now. Louis had found the apartment that my mother and sister lived in. He had painted all the apartments in the building and discovered one for them to rent. Louis was adamant against my coming to live there. And I was still ill. My mother didn't agree with Louis and thought I should come home. I always felt that I created a riff between the two of them.

Louis always said that he felt that he could no longer do what he wanted when he wanted that he would kill himself.

I had fooled the doctor who was more depressed that I was. The doctor and my mother agreed that I should go home. Re-establish my sense of home. I knew very little about anything at that time. I wanted to kill myself. I wanted to choke myself by tightening a belt buckle around my neck. I would squeeze the belt buckle tight and watch my face getting red, redder in the mirror. I wanted to drink varnish and ammonia. I lay in the lumpy bed in the living room and planned my self-destruction each and every moment of the day. I wanted to cut my face up.

I also thought of jumping in front of The Long Island Railroad that was a few blocks from the Apartment. I would leave the apartment in the morning after my mother and sister had gone to work and school and I'd crouch by the train tracks poised to jump in front of each train as it pulled out of the Freeport Station. I would prepare to jump in front of the train and flinch and contract back at the last moment. Once I was so close to the train that the railroad driver honked the loud horn for half a minute.

Before this time Louis and my mother had a quarrel. Louis decided to move out. I remember clearly that he put many of his belongings in the back of his red van and then pulled out of the garage door which was electric. I felt that he left because I had moved in and he was against that. I felt that my mother's and his quarrelling was because of me. He took all of his painting equipment and put it inside the red van. I knew that Michael and Jane loved Louis very much and I didn't know him nearly as well as they. I had driven with Louis in his van one time. A few weeks after Louis left I returned to the hospital because I kept wanting to kill myself. About a month and a half later Louis was found in an empty basement near the beach in Long Beach, Long Island. He had hanged himself. He killed himself. I didn't kill myself. I didn't jump in front of the train.

 
   

Young son
New York City 1983

Young son but the daughter with her straight blonde hair prevails. What's happening besides. Finally as they will Hippiedom and a gay man at Lamb's. What's happening besides holiday depression waiting for the egg nog cruising down eight avenue. Are these people I identify with finally stringing a tall tree with popcorn candy cane and christmas cards. Trudging through christmas carols why force it? It's not for me and I didn't even speak with Dewie. Odd, what was I looking for? Some rest (so I slouch and rest my head on the picnic table). I emptied the tent which I had filled up earlier in the evening the rain clouds were ominous, it later drizzled nothing serious what'll it be? Sleep and I fell out face or fire me out me out an excellent rest. Are the buses running today I'd like to see Maynard and crash in his room Monday day-night early Tuesday morning in order to catch the bus. Can't miss the 6:15 but the 9 hour night of sleep felt best and a shower a swim off the dock and back with Marc dull razor not up to a shave or I'd do it. Howard Johnson breakfast Sunday morning with Wayne at Traveloge. Coffee is coffee. Pictures that are food kill me with an egg over easy I did my wash early Saturday evening for one dollar fifty this set me back chipped in one dollar for rum set me back twice over knocked me out and left me with six dollars bus from Laguardia and allsun flirts with humans trickles through clouds that offer right of passage. Sacrifice yourself son. Sun I'm actually preparing to depart by stategy taking Ft. Lauderdale mountain by strategy from oral Gables to Hollywood and up to Ft. Lorderdale full. The sun's here - Yoga exercise before me. Breath. Is it a sun shower? Yale student at Lamb's talks about painting waiting to be a painter being an undergraduate at Yale. His girlfriend goes to Dartmouth. They're both having difficulties. She with the environs of Hanover the fully developed Yalie go to town to day go to describe Key West a mixture of weak tonics with a vacation ferv or a madness for holiday a neurotic jump which lands too stable. I want the sun too I want the sun too. Fucked up father cheates at bumper pool for his young son.

 
   

A strange faith in a moving center
New York City 11/ 1978

Patience. Patience. Reflection. A strange faith in a moving center. Sense the field the center plays in-through. Find the certain centers, touching one and then another. Each move demands a leap. Each leap demands preparation. Each preparation is somehow not sufficient. Each leap demands self-confidence, self-respect and faith. Take these leaps of faith! Is this Heidegger. Is that how it's spelled? But leaving the train station was easier than the need to pen the foresaken reality. The fire was exciting. There was the fire the day before. Along. Elke's mother died of an abortion give by her father. Elke was three at the time. Her father killed himself two months later unable to live with his reality. She was raised by her aunt, her mother's sister in a small town between Hannover and Hildesheim. Another sister was raised in Vienna where she still lives. The time flys by in the day of this word brings nothing but wetness aboard what? It's not confusion, just connector, transition, loss, walk, to it, what about refusal. What is it? It isn't that, examine with full detail, disclose, expose myself to myself and don't be too hard, don't be too proud. Oh don't. Time to wake up to the page. The relaxed attitude for several days. Necessary, very necessary, necessary, necessary. It ain't necessary. Necessary. Seeing pooh last night. Seeing pooh in her work last night. Dirt and dirt and crackled leaves. Crackle, dirt and leaves crackle away leaves squatting and shitting and shitting and squat. Squat. Squat. Squat. I go away and there's a different return. There's a very different return. I embark now fully so. So fully full. So fully full. Many hawks and birds thrive their own ways hawks and birds walk their own way. Thoughts of spiderman. We sit separate sides of chair and vision sit we there, oh canal dredge me home by a walk above dogs, cats, calms, aquarius lost in a vision of waste and trepidation. The dredge down calls out in faces of warm milk, dying. This too too too too sullied flesh to put a finger on, what about the spiderman solo at cbgb's. What about what about that. That. That that. That that spider man solo at cbgb's. Red gell. Red hat. Red spider man mask. Red scarf to choke with spider spit (red saliva) spider man's final hours.