from The Lights No Stars Are Made Of

    (front & back cover & one page from my Notebook #54, one of many notebooks
    I made from stacks of my dad's leftover state senate & house stationary.
    this one covers June2000 to August 2001 . . .)


       The Truth of the Matter


         I can’t get enough done.
        Chaos aplenty rules the roost.
       It’s like an unkempt chicken house,
       feathers & shit everywhere.
      I pray to the organization order of the universe
      that produced one fine part, me,
      to connect me, to correct me, to direct me
     through these books, records, papers papers papers
     things scattered about long beyond their use:
     give me simplicity simplicity simplicity.
     Maybe if I keep saying it it will come.
     Oh order, good orderly direction, for goodness sake,
     for power, love, service to others’ sake.
     Take me, make me anew, may I do for once, what is true.

     larry goodell / placitas, new mexico / june 2000 / from The Light No Stars Are Made Of

The Goods Gods

(south window, larry's study, twins, spider woman, others)

The Wild Flower Powers Act 
ascertaining all the good that is in the Gods 
Gods spelled with a capital awful 
and preceding from there to the d for damned 
the s of snakes in coupling, if plural 
which is the only way 
and back from the s's 
over the awful of d and the blank vowel 
to G the goddamned, the gee 
of Gee Jesus whodunit Christ 
the master on the Paul 
jacking off Christianity 
Peter & Paul
                      & the holy rod 
stood like common ordinary prick juices 
between them 
Peter & Paul & the horse 
the nightmare of the cross buried 
upside down & forgotten 
coming up in supermarket lilies 
at exactly the wrong time 
Jesus syringed out of God 
over Paul showing him 
the mystic rod to beat his women with 
is how Paul interpreted 
& spread the original joy 
down through the Church 
the Church with a big S hissing 
churches of the rock of Peter 
hard to stone 
spilling or rather 
shooting the hardon into the female church
burst the doors out with 
pretend sperm 
as the male gods refused goddesses 
and rubbed their come on the backs of altars 
the hems of their vesicles 
chasubles and the rest of their impoverished 
rich filth 
that made up the masculine lurch 
from the feminine 
cunt-opera-stone rather to specific 
vulva altar 
like an acorn entering– 
I abominate the history of the Catholic Church 
 (and the Protestant is no protest now... )
I feel free to commit myself 
to freedom from it 
and all its old-fashioned 
Popery puke 
knee-deep in repression 
forked-tongue altars 
split-image confessions 
power-cocked ears 
wealth-misused to 
extract from the mob 
diamonds.& emeralds 
rubies back 
out of their breaking backs 
humping for more tithes 
the orgasmic coffers of the church 
with little token Mary's 
our Lady of Sorrows 
our Virgin of Guadalupe 
robbing Cihuacoatl 
of her skirts.


Toss off what burns
anything painful is not part of the good
in gods 
and one "o" to gods, it's goods– 
erase the church it's 
goods  
           the churches 
tied-up masturbatory lurches 
the women priests 
under their thumbs 
under their knees 
under the foundations of the churches 
come rolling out in the light of day 
a new subway rakes off the clay 
and exposes the Goddess 
the mask behind the face looks 
the God in the Goddess 
several tons of exact 
definition 
the train of events 
surrounding the circle 
of ancient daddy, old-time mammy 
that old couple 
that old goat, old nanny 
that old fashioned 
Southern family 
from way down 
deep down 
the archeologist hands me 
just such picture 
of what he found there


this was she & he in trees 
in gorgeous swamps 
mosquito ridden 
hiding in the hills 
the groom runs up with best man 
to find her or is it her 
hiding there 
it is her passing 
the wild flowers act 
the power of the two like scales of form 
stations of the house 
the office, the club 
the legislature, congress 
chief of staff 
the board of poets and sculptors 
like scales of function 
space and matter 
the governing bodies race to the top 
where there's only two there 
sometimes doubled 
sometimes tripled. 
Going out with god becomes 
going with the gods becomes 
getting    the goods– 
they are goods 
when they pop out at you  
       or caressed 
rise up to you  
       when blessed 
warm up in you when 
gentled hold, 
surround you are 
the us 
of lust 
the lie 
of life 
that is just 
that is lying down
duplicity emerges
one to the other
in exact duplicates
that become opposites
two males as different as
night and day
two females worlds
apart
all thrown together
to make up gods
that focus on
the man, the men
and woman, women
they are, they are
or were found again
to be totally new– 
caught with the goods
the man as far away from the woman
as he can be
rides the same horse
he tamed – 
she made the horse
comes back in
with her fins
guiding– 
he turns after
swimming in their house
with their goods
compressed air fills the tires of his truck– 
hot air blows
her hair dry
quickly–it’s so short– 
quickly they’re so small
that is the circles of air
they breathe
surrounding earth
with all its goods.




larry goodell / placitas, new mexico / 4Oct84

Blue Spruce

(I recorded this long poem in May, 2011, while sitting under the tree. 

It is Fall writing with a kind of stumbling prelude that leads into the poem.)

You can hear it here: http://bit.ly/luyA8Y      

filled file

foil

few

I have writer’s

critters

block

bust

through.


King pin

kinged

pinned

knocked down,

bad ass

bump

busted

clog

cleared

clear the mania

the run any way

gate to

the fairy tale

muse

opened

opined

oh pine

& sea

by the sea warped

seashore


I was going to be

right about

something for once —

instead I gushed

bad

elongated

haikus

boo boos

on

booboos,

boohoo

the cartoon baby

said

left in the supermarket of desire

by frivolous

parents of the 90's.

Stoned, so sad

mad

no morals

no anything but

let’s narrow the focus

people of our

eaten-up times

eating out on the run

everyone on

the out and outs

with each other

abandoning

everyone else to

not take care

of themselves.

I have been abandoned in

the supermarket of

no words.

I scream in my cart

don’t take me home

until

I grow up.

I am home

I am no longer

a pup.

I am

grown up.

I am free

to be me.

And she

who has never been mentioned

is indeed

here.

She

in this rare moment

is listening

to me

is

putting up

with me,

because

I remind myself

to be good

honest

sharing

caring

putting

the plate down

with the food

the chile & beans

the homemade pizza

the macaroni & cheese

the great big

garden salad

on it.

We don’t eat together

but we eat.

We are waifs

who found each other

a long

time ago.

There is no impediment

to the fortunes

of a rolling optimist

beating up through

the leaves

of the evergreens,

like heart beats

beat to beat

I grow

because I am planted here

and I haven’t

dried out yet.

I wish I was

a blue spruce

looking at me

irrigating (it).

I have nothing to say

being a tree

growing up high

in the sky

between the two

apples trees.

I am now

taller than

you

or me.

Feel free

to dispute

the mind of

a poet:

our songs connect thru

disconnects.

Our lives intersect

through

not touching.

Words

touch

for us.

That is

a forest

in a tree.

In three trees.

The spruce

the Jonathon apple

the tart green

apple

the irrigation

ditch

depends on the Oso (bear) spring

flowing above us.

Nature exists

in spite of

people.

People certainly exist

in spite of

natural

wonders

diminishing

in an all-time

rat-race to oblivion.

Sit

on the new portal

overlooking

the sacred yes I say it

sacred because I make it

out to be

acequia.

Acequia madre

above

connects to our

shared one

here and

connects

to where it

flows on down

below

the other part

of the village.

She and I

flow on

as long as the spring fills

through the reservoir

and runs

through more

and more people

more

& more

wells

more and more

anti-nature

nature.

We will take care of everything

by keeping space

between ourselves.

Space makes

character.

I grow up

to become

the tree I see

the blue spruce now

that was

years ago

a Christmas tree

for our family

of three,

making us

four

after all

I believe in

equality.

Sitting on the

portal

looking out at

what was

the sea.

The paradise

of the fall

the paradise of

the garden upon

garden

the blue spruce

overlooking all,

the blazing, blazing

yellow of fall

does the blue spruce

see.

I see.

I see

says

the fall

the blue spruce

overlooking all.

larry goodell / placitas, new mexico / Oct95

from Beyond TV, poems from 1995

this poem was given to friends as a duende press broadside . . .