VIEW 9 poems ‚
larry goodell
"King" was published by Wildflower Press in a broadside, 1990
9 poems from Agave, poems written in 1989 entitled
VIEW an aromatic duende release
Šlarry goodell 2015 duendepress@outlook.com
VIEW 9 poems from 1989
Look Out A View, A View Look Here Hairy Look King Yukon Gold Show Me
14Apr89 18Apr89 27Apr89 2May89 9May89 26May89 27Jun89
LOOKOUT Why is orgasm such play ? And along came sex under the carpet. Just in time for supper. Men of nature coming under the carpet, we have no carpet. Everything is fantasy: fan taste, of oriental pleasure which is all white, a voyeur's hole. ‚ Up pops nature! "I've been here before, naturallment. I'm fanning myself, with oriental breezes. I'm appearing on TV tonight, Channel 5. Channel Dog. Channel Mysterious Animal.
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You want to know what that is sounding like a puppy in the morning, a loud cooing dove from the side of the hill up there: Is it an owl? Only I know but the language that I speak in is foreign to you. Here is the word: Dome-kink-nay." Nor is it supper time. It's morning. It's evening. It's the world around the clock. You are blessed, you are a protector. You grow your own: everything, everything. Get back to speech, not closet drivel. ‚ And so, this was the message I got and the species epidendrum orchid is blooming a spray of yellow, teeny involved flowers and the digbyana, a powerful pale green pleasure 2
that excites you at night. And Kami in small orange burst, epiphyllum though hybrid right you are, and the Chiapasia, pink clear through and the time of my life expulsing away, and entering now, now, now entering now: the greenhouse and what is that animal out there now an owl? I spoke to the twins, my twins of twins to be my guardians as I go out and find out. Thank you Mother Nature, for telling me: be on the lookout. ‚
Is that animal coming for me? What's the reason for nature?
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"That animal is a roadrunner: that's it's mating call," Scott, irrigating next door, told me. "It'll do that over & over, calling its mate."
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A VIEW, A VIEW Atop any formation the sky perfumes Freud with unrest in the Underworld: Oh everything's Eastern the Duchess informed me before taking her rockers off in the parking lot behind the A & Z. There's a mountain to be had for the eating, her husband, an American jockey, said. Oh is this proetry, proetry, proetry the Language Poet punned, hoping he wouldnt be chopped for lightness. Everything is too good to be true, Freud, atop his monument, said. Jung flushed the toilet. Foucault threw his funnies in the wastebasket. Twain withdrew from America. Thomas Mann fired his wife. Adler forgot how to read a book. The other Adler refused advice to the lovelorn.
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The antique stores down the way simply charged too much for the same thing. Everything is an antique, the Victorian espoused from the chair that stank of too much lubrication. We must try to modernize ourselves, they all said as swarms of religious fanatics took over the foyer and demanded their livers. What's for supper? The imagination exists in the future. Even when it sounds dated. Seems, is dated. Dated 18th of April, 1989.
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THE HAIRY LOOK Out of the remarkable In the remarkable End of the remarkable. The Spring sends cold chills down the spine of my book coming out. End of the spectacular. In the spectacular. Out, for good, of the spectacular. ‚ The Poet is a three-ring circus His academic self rejects. He knows too much and is a prudent intellectual. He is a bear A grasshopper mouse A spider -Simply employed by the University of Aardvark To characterize zoos in literature of the 1800's.
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Thus the cavalcade of little slim volumes Of hirsute ancestry Put out with spines out For other hairy vertebrates. He needs to be clipped: He eats steer meat yet has balls. He has decided to open a hair parlour And call it Hair's Place. No, Hair Today. No, he considers this change of career Carefully Artistic Hair Center. Or Art's Hair Design. Art's Barber. Or, Bangs. Hair Gallery. Hair Encounters. Hair Le Hot. Hair Obsessions, Reflections, Shapes, Hair Square Hairy's Hair Styles Hair's To You Hair We Are! The Poet is considering a change of life. Mr. Shears. Or The Cut Above. Shear Force. Tonsorial Titillations.
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The Poet returns to his book coming out. Finally he realizes he knows nothing about fusion. He is more like a grasshopper mouse that catches grasshoppers and scorpions: Except he is afraid of scorpions and grasshoppers and mice. The poet is really his own book coming out better off, he knows dead. So he opens up a hair store selling 18th Century wigs and after a year has a brisk business. Everyone wants to be 18th Century. His book has come out and another and another and another. And he sent them all to his mother. And he is a wig. Wigging Out with Hairy is his shop.
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KING
I put on my magic and ascended the throne of nothing. Don't be anything be the light you are which is your body. The air was piled and furious. Everything was present But rain. You could see yourself by looking ahead and You didn't interrupt. Nature was look out the window. Nature was look. Nature was the bible repeating itself after Being whipped up in a Cuisinart. Oh kitchen. My eyes. I feel needed humidity. I feel dusty. The apricot tree Outside my window outside my window. The new cherry tree Farther away farther away. I am king of my now. King of My now. The radio boosts my freedom. I have irrigated. Village water is plentiful but for how long. This is A spring in which the sun seems terribly hot. The plants Seem burnt. Irrigating is trying to restore plenty. Everything back back back. It makes you feel so good The evening after, especially the morning after. Every Thing is bolt up growing. Without plants those lettuces Spinach, new iris, struggling beets, seeding asparagus, All the new fruit trees: the Eden, the eaten to be, The waiting for a good fruit season, the black raspberries Now, now, now, bees after them blooming, there would be Nothing. It's time passing this May 9th, '89. May 9th, Home of everything: the luxury of the time to sit down And not having to do other things, but to think this Thing out. Seeing it go by. Romeo et Juliette. The great Patina vagina. The pagination of the clouds. The upward Mobile nation while you're down in the pit you dug. Every
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Body is out there grinding away the necessity of moving The mountains and cashing the bank. I'm cursed by sluggish Poverty, self-inflicted, disorganized, nothing but my eyes. I see you, wind blows the old apple, the dusty juniper We don't want. The new old-fashioned roses are being Watered slow. Oh beautiful Rosa Damascena Bifera you are As ancient as anything I can ever know. Back to the Romans I'd like to think Greeks. Finally Sappho or at least Horace, we have something in common. We both, we three Sniff deep this pink beauty that is the sweetness to Define the true sweet: damask. Without the old, two Guardians over my shoulders, restored, there's no new. This is only old. This is my view. Roomed in history. Bits Here and there making all sight feel good. Making the Earth Less unearthly. The dirt here pinned down by gravity. The Way the clouded sun fits in the picture. The twins in The window, the Twins I carved from cottonwood roots from An old arroyo, Twins attending the Spider Woman Anglo Carving abrupt in the middle, that is, taller bigger Than them with turkey feathers sticking out of her head. You three are my three in the window I look out around and Between. Through. It's a passage of a day, afternoon in This space and should I say time. A pastorale of vision. Meaning quiet looking. Quiet, and looking. A savoring when Everything else is pushed back, the things that pile up Threatening to screw you up worst of them guilt. Here is No guilt. Here is looking at it. The one time only view.
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Yukon Gold
Life like light life Dead deaf tied night Walk King Down To change the wa ter One row o ver Where I plan ted Yukon Gold and Yukon Red potatoes. Hope to rope the light to life to Pick up sky to Lift the water Down come rain to Pull the water-wheel In Ezekiel's Wheel a-turnin I'm a worryin Siss-ee-phoos. No I'm not I'm Man tide tied to Moon by cords of Unheard females Half of all my Chromosomes. Rain down on red and Yellow fleshed Potatoes may they Bring the drops
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To themselves from Under the sky-lid Sunsets spackled leaf shadows Against the books the window sills The walls of water wells that slide then Rush down in some welcome way though Always Disturbing With the thunder rolling down into The ground of ABC's of Earth the Little pot of dirt I know Dried Cool.
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SHOW ME
There's nothing he couldn't imagine since He never went anyplace. So, you said it, he'd pick it up. He was an echo of other people's experiences. And he had a dead pan mind. It'd think, enjoy, try to follow Then lose it like gold Though some of it would crop up in dreams Or in somebody-else's experiences Better told. Thus, thus. But the gigantic vertical dreams of his Everyday experiences everyday threatened Discordantly To take over his real life. His real life was seeing, there wasn't anything Lost in seeing, unlike hearing In the string of the teller's words, In sight it was all in one bolt, The bifurcated view. And with the imagination backing it it was like Two transducing aspects, two vertical back to back Shifts through the day: driving, the other would Take over and he would be in his imagined mind. But come back to register the road again. Such are the dangers of the imagined life 14
The real/unreal nexus. Is the imagined new and the real older? But both equally real, the fooled says I guess it's worth it to become Fantasized. Millions pay money to learn to become creative. Try to escape their doldrums of reality. They tell me it's desirable, well, they pay. You do in your day what you do in your day. And either way there are hopes and gripes. But my tool is honed, worked on, taken For granted till someone, downright everyone Thinks I'm weird: "a weird perspective On everything." True, true. But everything whatever comes from me seems Normal. Of course, with everyone. Seeing is the light entering the brain. Traveling without moving is seeing. A little world is a big mind: I'm living what screens of the day and night Show. Show.
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Brassavola digbyana
9 poems from Agave, poems written in 1989 entitled
VIEW
an aromatic duende release 2015
page from broadside - "King" by Larry Goodell
VIEW 9 poems ‚
larry goodell