Hawk Wind Three : Day's Closing

DAY'S CLOSING

On the street, wise Wall rose and,

busted, groped the sunning elves,

those gnomes of knowing, creeping,

searching for dead knowledge of

their loss or gain. And onto all of

that the wise Sun shone : On blinding

Sun, in nickel matinees and strip-tease

dances in the naked flesh of sordid day.

-

Tin-gray (and tunny), the lots of

auto-didacts were maiming themselves

and, suddenly stationary, were lining

the lunar nicks of running time.

Sensation. Mother of the maiden 

rhyme. (I can't do it, can't I, time).

-

Broadway whom I love; the gun-stalls

and the bookeries, the food and penny

arcades, the cheaps, the bordellos. Ten

dollars for a wet erosion; limousine,

blue neon scene. Dying heaps of the

caterwaul. I  -  and dreaming  -  see

the purple ocean harbor rise and

capture; twist, recede and spiral.

-

The violent pale faces of the crowds

seem screaming, Munch-like walkers

over a hooded bridge of time  -  no one

sees me knowing I am there with them.

A self-bought insularity keeps me.

always knowing where the other lurks.

-

Tell them, tell them, buying, as they

sell: There is no other, watching,

keeping counters' scores with a

whistle to admonish. Hell. Yet

they are all still living?

-

I shall light this smoke, and wait some,

to see the struggling dwarf depart.

-

Broad Wall weeps, as Maiden Lane

eyes the slick expanse 'neath rainy

skies, despondent, thrown, and deluged

now like rage across two fiery seas.

The nation throws in ships its wastes

along the worthless marine caverns

while soiled men bet their fortunes

on outcomes unknown. Awkward.

Thrown. Like dice, for years a'tumble,

revived, revised, alive.

-

Smokes the unknown ground, abreast,

its steam and subway groan; a running

subterranean fury kept disguised. Our

commerce rules the figured sky; the

numbers romp, the billions build. The

hordes, upon their sinking slopes,

descend in droves some mother ship

to master. Pealing, does not old, fair

Trinity let us know, by its manifest

of the graveyard dead, what worth

has any of this? Let us know now,

please : disaster, striking, striking.

-

Some scape; few trees. Watch the

snow descend, o'er the small park

of Man-King : Dollar; build, renew,

sacred arch; bold wall, again. The

dark eludes the fire. The fire eludes

the smoke; the situation's dire. The

crazy madman spoke.

Hawk-Wind Two : MORANO

MORANO

I, in want of cage and

broken, stumble,crassly

different, towards a

solvent piece of

never-ending light.

-

Now fade all those small

traces of what before

has capped my head. I

am alone in such a laughter

and delight, and  -  quick to

show  -  the solemn twist of

tight discord; the knot-wrist,

the tamed face, and, utmost,

the quick-muscled little bird:

-

Which falls to fires too soon

flying to recall the feather,

faithless, singed, yet flying

with a faith all the same.

-

I wish I had a line to keep, a

walnut-spray of silky gloss

walking blindly ever on. I 

wish that I could cover all

the wild extremes, yet, as

tightly to a toehold, become

what my eyes see.

-

I, tired, lean to turn and fall,

yet slowly, and as surely as a

force, still twist to rise anew.

Hawk-Wind 1: My Introduction

MY INTRODUCTION

In vast labor I comprehend

the rushung force of that

which time, in its rudiments

of strangeness, leaves behind:

White; the soft-decayed still

shadings which appear where

none before had stood.

-

I delight in such a tonic, drinking

my heavy fill and  -  as sated  -  

burst to lunge in a drunken frenzy 

towards the open sky above. 

Meticulous to a fault, I watch the 

lighthouse misconstrue the harbor; 

sacred ships smashing as they scatter

through their all-determined night.

-

And I know no other. I am masked:

A stone, asunder; broken, shot, and

reeling towards a death the likes

of which has never been before.

-

So, no one knows, no, nothing.

Yet I, in vast alliance with false

labor, comprehend my end and

see, yes, see, as only I still can.