Michele Habel-Coffey: Love Lies Bleeding

flowersforalgernon

Love Lies Bleeding

By Michele Habel-Coffey


Amaranthus Caudatus for Algernon

For Charlie

And for my Grace

Loves lies bleeding

Dying in the cold

Dying on the headstone

Of the long gone

And seldom mourned

I am Alice

In Charlie’s backyard

Down the foxhole I go

In search of better flowers

Of Lotus

And Lilac

And a pill to make me big again

The white rabbit

Runs beside the mouse

His jaws clamped upon

The Eglantine

The mouse, tangled in

Forget-Me-Not,

stumbles

Remaining in between

The Rabbit

and poor Alice

Poor, poor me

I am ever chasing

Ever fading

A Cheshire grin

Left upon

An aching memory

Forget the pill

Give me a potion

I shall tread until I drown

Exhausted

By the wheel

And intoxicated

by the Wormwood

Jack Kerouac: Dharma, Zen, and Freedom

“I see a generation of Dharma Bums refusing to subscribe to the general demand that they have to work for the privilege of consuming all that crap they didn’t really want anyway such as refrigerators, TV sets, cars, at least new fancy cars, certain hair oils and deodorants and general junk you finally always see a week later in the garbage anyway, all of them imprisoned in a system of work, produce, consume, work, produce, consume, I see a vision of a great rucksack revolution, thousands or even millions of young Americans wandering around with rucksacks… Zen Lunatics who go about writing poems that happen to appear in their heads for no reason… and also by strange unexpected acts giving visions of eternal freedom to everybody.” – Jack Kerouac

Keith Waldrop: Tuning

Herr Stimmung—purblind—moves in corporeal time.
 
    Think how many, by now, have escape the world’s memory.
 
    Think, how all his wandering is only thought. Having once tried to
live in the quasi-stupor of sensation, now he picks his way through
areas of spilth, seeking the least among infinite evils.
 
    His hope: intermittent.
 
    To a person so little conscious, what would it mean to die? Though
he feels, true enough, death’s wither-clench. Thinking always of
something permanent, watching the while how everything goes on
changing.
 
    He has seen where Speed is buried. Eyes exorbitant.
 
    He has the tension of male and female: active, divided. Anger and
lust. What he eats tastes exactly like real food.
 
    He would search out interphenomena, if he could decipher the
interstices. The broken line. Immediate havoc. Circular heaven.
Square earth. He cries world world, and there is no world.
 
    He claims superiority over the other animals, being the only one
who can talk, the only one to have doubts.
 
    Herr Stimmung knows a whale is big. Its skeleton might shelter a
dozen men.
 
    Not existing, not subsisting—insisting. Not object, not subject—
eject. (He works within opposed systems, every one of them opposed
to system.)
 
    “Fillette”—in confusion he addresses himself—”n’allez pas au bois
seulette.”
 
    He knows who is allowed to wear what kinds of beads. He knows
how fruit trees are inherited. All his self-objects lie in the inoperative
past.
 
    Herr Stimmung springs from a long undocumented ancestry.
 
    He has a special attitude towards terror.

 

Keith Waldrop, “Tuning” from The House Seen from Nowhere. Copyright © 2002 by Keith Waldrop. 

Middle Aged by Ezra Pound

Image

Tis but a vague, invarious delight.

As gold that rains about some buried king.

 

As the fine flakes,

When tourists frolicking

Stamp on his roof or in the glazing light

Try photographs, wolf down their ale and cakes

And start to inspect some further pyramid;

 

As the fine dust, in the hid cell beneath

Their transitory step and merriment,

Drifts through the air, and the sarcophagus

Gains yet another crust

Of useless riches for the occupant,

So I, the fires that lit once dreams

Now over and spent,

Lie dead within four walls

And so now love

Rains down and so enriches some stiff case,

And strews a mind with precious metaphors,

 

And so the space

Of my still consciousness

Is full of gilded snow,

 

The which, no cat has eyes enough

To see the brightness of.