A Writer's Tale

More “Early Poems”

Running Away (1965)

A city-boy sits against a corn shock Underneath the street lamp of the moon Knowing that alone on an Autumn evening

Is no better Maybe worse In a wigwam cornfield Than in muggy-aired Chicago Where at least you can see her Passing by, saying hi Once a day. Maybe. If you’re lucky.

Gull (1965)

A sea gull slipping across the moon

In the Sierras Shrieks a lonesome hunger For a far-off sea-place.

Night on a Lake (1965)

I would have it night on a lake our pale painted boat riding silence on the water under us smooth with the wind

all warm from the breath of sleeping reeds near the shore. There I would stand, free myself, and feel the wind lick

where I want you, now, stand slowly

not to flow over into the lake too soon. You, now, are white where I am white, hidden where I out of hiding will find you. Now slip softly into the wet warmth warmer than the wind with hands closer than the wind we rise tight out of the lake and the wind and the night.

Kite (1965)

Looking up I dig a stranded kite Caught on a telephone wire Shredded by the wind Its soul-string whipping behind in the wind And the pale morning moon Hanging stupid above it. I pass by Hoping another guy

Will come along And dig it with love like me.

Patience (1967)

Some of us are Waiting to walk Along a beach at dusk And stumble Not on a sea weed, Sea bone, driftwood, But on Skulls

Of Some Of us Are

Waiting (patiently)

For things to get Rather sticky red With us

Before things get Too dry to drink.

Assassin’s Meditation (1967)

Today I could have lost My lotus down the chest Of president or king, Died petal after petal Down the warehouse wall Into a siren asphalt fire. I could have knelt

At Tower Hill To die with More Or grown black wings With Latimer. Today I could have slanted My thighs through the sky Grey doom of death’s belly, Slid down a cliff of shadow Into the slated, shouting sea… Taken my blood By the bone of its hand And led it, trembling, Into the alter of tomb.