Tuesday, August 11, 2009

A Direct Hit Not Aiming

crappola ticky pot.
pray question where am I
shorted out electrode
trod on lightly
lightening cut in half
toad happy
 throw it all in a pot
 & stir it up
 I am-m-m a meditate
 a medical no
 a Mediterranean 
 meditate tones
 over my head
 all of comedy falls to the floor
 today I mediate
 between the warring factions
 I am the warring factions
 but instead of warring
 I do my media trope 
 where am I when the sunlight comes
 where am I
 not in bed
 the answer to both questions
 is the same
  I am that self-same thing
  I am trying not to get into the lotus position
  I’m full of it
  it charges through me
  like thunder cut in two
  since my warring self
  jumped on my opposing self
  & devoured it
  half of me is all I have
  the half of a clap of thunder
  claps the half of a bolt of lightening
  and becomes it
  blends into half its former self.
   I’m drawn in.
   Sitting on a futon
   Western fashion.
   I am out.
   Never part of anything
   is another way to say
   oh my
   oh why
   oh me
   oh my
   pranava Donna
   do anything
   the donut with the hole
   taken out
   it was never the donut to start with
   it was the filled hole filled,
   the empty left over
    I was the center of nothing
    I’m a stupid American
    who never fit in
    I don’t even like donuts.
    I like holes better.
    I don’t have to eat
    they eat me.
    What’s left of me.
    I can’t be Eastern
    because I’m Western
    and the two they say
    never meet,
    and besides
    I’m half.
    I want what’s over there
    on the other side of the not-fenced-in
     But I am always here
     adhering to it:
     this “here” place.
     A medical nation
     on not being
     in a terrain
     as unfamiliar
     as here is
     I bring my
     kundalini out
     by pouncing on what I
     haven’t got
     I haven’t got a face
     The teeny half-ass force
     I administer.
      I’m bigger than shit
      the half of me left
      I’m outside something that’s disgusting
      plus being what’s disgusting.
      I transcend it.
      So I’m centered on being diffused.
      And there’s only
      half of me all scattered out
      Which is enough
      since it’s all I need
      and all I ever was.

      I was never
      my whole imagined self
      I am the young thing
      ha ha ha ha.
       I am the force within
       ha ha ha ha.
       The world does not revolve around
       ha ha ha ha,
       I am revolving around with the world.
       The world, earth
       revolves me
       the world, earth
       involves me
       takes me with it
       in a fit of continuance
       thrusts me, unknowing
       most of the time
       They say,
       those who read their books to me,
       those voices that read along in my head
       when I read
       all my life.
       Half of my life passes before me
       as if a dream.
        hot cakes.
        Ha ha ha ha.
        a media trade off
        silence enters in
        what supposedly doesn’t exist
        gives quiet space
        to the entire history
        of football.
        Football conquers:
        I lost.
        I should have gone with the main force
        but I was too thin.
        They hit me and I fell down
        the last to arrive
        running around the football field.
        Or was I.
        Come to think of it
        I was never the last.
          I was always at least
          half there.
          I’m half the world
          this undying egotist in me
          my imagination
          back at me.
          my real half self.
            Here I am having gone west
            in my family
            until I’m here.
            Half baked.
            Turning outward
            I was going to say
            I don’t fight it
            I massage my cramped lower legs
            and go back to bed
            learning to lift up
            from where I am
            without levitating
            which is disgusting anyway.
              I left up in the half of me
              which is all of me
              in my imagination
              and go to bed
              ha ha ha ha
              go back to bed
                  Hi prana
                  force that’s
                  chock full of it.
              oh my.
              Ha ha ha ha
              ha ha ha ha
              becomes tomorrow

              ha ha ha ha.

              at heart half of it
              thunder claps lightning
              bolts thunder
              comes each one
              towards each other
              we could use some rain –
              without touching.
               They just
               bypass one another.
               The two halves of my imagination say
               which is half of me
               which is all of me
               The quality of the feeling lasts
               or the better half wins.
               The lightning just passes over
               the thunder
               this is my rain dance I can’t
               not being Indian
               I can’t do anything
               I’m just a stupid half-assed
               angled toward voice.
               That’s not true
               my self-esteem
               steams over
               and says I conquer
                I am
                I fuse into one
                like a candle burning
                like nothing you’ve ever seen
                like a snow dance.
                I can dream can’t I?
                Chant by
                evening  .
                hangs down
                ready to drop.
                 Drip drop
                 the completed cliché says.
                 Snow drips into water
                 having first been rain.
                 Or was it mist.
                 I was mist.
                 Now look at me.
                 I’m human.
                 Watch out.
                 I might do it.
                 Don’t do it
                 my conscience says.
                 What is my conscience?
                 It’s my no-no self.
                 Outside my imagined self.
                 But my guardian angel
                 will protect me
                 ha ha ha ha.
                 Ha ha ha.
                 Throws me out of harm’s way
                 for another day.
                  Yes I do believe in you.
                  You who-who.
                  You who-who you.
                  You who, half who-who
                  are me.
                  My true half me
                  I am happy more or less
                  to be.
                  Or not to
                  bungle it up.
                  Bundle up
                  it’s winter.
                  And go to bed.
                  Get you out of my head.
                  There is nothing in my head.
                  Some one Eastern tells me
                  to be.
                  I can never be without the real
                  self I am.
                  So there.
                  I am lucky
                  to be a part
                  of myself.
                   I am now
                   thoroughly happy
                   I am a part
                   of myself.
                   I do belong
                   to something.
                   I am that something
                   that something
                   that is such an
                   important part
                   of myself.
                   They don’t ever
                   want me to talk about
                   anything that has to do
                   with me.
                   So I won’t
                   I’ll show you.
                   I’m all out of myself.
                   I threw myself up
                   in the air
                   and was last seen
                   I am not there.
                   I am not there
                         are you happy?

                   Ha ha.
                   Ha ha ha ha ha ha.

                   Let it
                   rain snow.
                   I will learn to do it
                   tho it means
                   stretching half-way round the world.
                    Drip drop
                    I’m gone
                    into my want.
                    I want cold.
                    I want winter
                    I want snowpack on the mountain.
                    I want people to go away.
                    They won’t.
                    But it might
                     and sing.
                      I sing the blues
                      for the truth.
                       Is truth still beauty
                       beauty aloof?
                        Is truth forever
                          Or does it light down
                          a bird
                           those cranes I saw
                           flying in formation
                            so close over me
                            in the bosque cottonwood grove
                             of the river of my life,
                             dividing me
                              two & two.
                               in two.
                                In two
                                I am
                                 part of one.
                                 In tuned.
                                  A peaceful
                                   The birds I remember
                                    migrating late in a warm winter
                                    keep on going
                                     as truthful as truth is.
                                     The idea on my brain.
                                      Gone away
                                      to come again.
                                       May pleasure be peace
                                       and beauty in the truth that we
                                        come back again
                                        to where I am no me.
                                         Just what I know
                                         stares me in the face.
                                          The face I don’t see
                                          unless reflected.
                                           All I see now is
                                            I see what I do
                                            and will be me
                                             till I’m through.
                                             I will be me
                                              until I’m through.

larry goodell / placitas, new mexico /16dec
from Beyond TV, poems 1995
photograph by lenore goodell

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