no. 3
Escape is perilous. The birds are high above.
Living beneath means one must lift one's head.
Bird! You change, and the name we send
To you never arrives. On their journey, songs will dissolve
like candy in a child's mouth melting away,
into some future day when much will pass.
Carrying your image, the train is on its way,
Bringing your image with, my bird Felice.
But I can never pick you up. Wilted are the flowers.
And all we call welcome is apparition.
Our shadows lead our way in the morning hours,
but follow in the afternoon. What is this illusion?
I pray. Steadfast raindrops slam against each Thing.
Our escape is endless becoming.
no. 4
Night, never are you enough night
Loneliness is never enough lonely.
I have heard you from the cellar, sad oaks,
until destroyed, the lightning sucks you dry.
And me, it's always so hard to find me.
Oh Time, could you ever be a fawn who becomes
more than enough himself the longer that he runs?
As if what was consumed were moon and wind only.
From the office building left, a cuckoo summons;
To live means to lose your blood slowly.
How I wish I could be carried to a far
away place, where no I could be found.
This typewriter, tape player and star,
on the tip of the Devil's tongue, are spun around.
no. 5
When can human beings ever
clearly see themselves? By a moonlit night
born of a stone's heart. Whatever moves flees from broken years
to a secret rendezvous. Everything is a mirror.
I write. Spiders sniff the odor of moonlight,
words wake up, lift their trains and invite
each other to a dance of distracted hearts across the floor.
I really don't know whether they're God's children
or powers of the Devil. I can hold my tears no more.
Something shatters suddenly, then goes to hide
returns to Things, leaving only shadows here behind
which stand across the bell-clanging silence.
Felice, no letter arrived from you today again,
and I sense my marvelous self in the loneliness.
no. 6
Reading is murder. I don't like being read
by lonely people. Their panting makes me
sick. They lift books to themselves
as they would lift a body part.
On muggy nights that only can oppress,
they use the flowers I help arouse to chide.
They hack God to bits, leaving him no word for his defense,
leave the ugly nowhere to hide.
They linger in whorehouse and pharmacy,
hang out with women or men known to sin,
mocking tyrants, babbling troubled prophecy.
The star in the sky pleads, "Incinerate me!"
The waters of Prague call out, "Let us have a sage!"
The headstone hushes. To read me means to kill me.
no. 7
An abrupt walk. The thought-expelling blood
Is a little darker than the night. So throw on your smelly
coat,
Take your hat and wander outside,
Walk among tiny creatures. Lamps like maddened owls.
Don't be afraid, this is what night is. The Unknown rushes
In and engraves our shape. Wilting moths take in the flaming
Light; when their last prayer is uttered, life is fused with
Death. I hear the drunken tongues of moths sampling
Infinite space. An abrupt walk.
They whisper: "right here, right here, not right, not left,
Not in front, not behind, right here! Do you have no fear?"
If you're not afraid, you are an angel. Release your Self.
Throw it aside and go your way purified. Only have no fear,
This is what wind is. Always remember Heaven's grandest sound.
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