Jan 31, 2009


the poet is the dreamer.
He dreams that the c lock stops
& 100 angels wandering wild
drift into his chamber
where nothing has been settled

should he got himself photographed
seated next to a mountain
like chairman Mao
the real sun flashing golden
off his real eyes
like the light off stones
by ocean?

Give me your perfect hand
& touch me simply with a word,
one distillation of forever

Should he put his white tie on
with his black shirt
& pass himself off as a docile gangster
,for the very last time?

The poet dream is real
down to the very last silver bullet

Should he slip again to Funland
in the city & throw dimes down holes
to watch hungry women flicker
one hair at a time
in kodacolor
from sad civilized boxers?

Should he practice magic
on politicians &
and crack their necks
in a laughing fit?

The poet is the dreamer.
He dreams babies asleep in wombs
& count the waisted sighs
lost in a flake of dusty semen
on a living thigh

Should he dream the end of an order,
the abolition of the slave trade,
the restoration to life
of dead millions
filing daily past time clocks
dutifully gorging themselves
on self-hatred & emptiness?

Should he even dream
an end to loneliness,
the illusion that
we can do without
& have no need
of one another?

It is true that he needs you,
I need you,
I need your pain & magic,
I need you more than ever
in every form & attitude-
gesturing with a rifle in your hand
starving in some earthly sector
or poised in some heavenly meditation
listening to the wind
with the third ear
or staring in forever
with the ever-watchful third eye,
you are needed

The poet is the dreamer &
the poet is himself the dream
&in this dream
he shares your presence

should he smash down walls
& expose the ignorance
beneath our lying nonsense?

No! No!
The gunshots he fires
up in the silent air
is to awaken.....

AL YOUNG (1939)

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