Author: William Cowan

Sometimes the exact science of knowing
is left in the desert with no way out.

Daybreak is here with the possibility
of being more than a measurement.

Beasts, food, and foes come and go
as we, learning to call the things we see,

grapple with intangible life:
when in the beginning all words

were shaped in the mouth for the first time,
and we danced to hear the air sing.

All the wisdom culled from passing freight
Cars was a pastiche of countries
Dreamed of as they slid away.
Portable gang graffiti and hobo mumblings
From distant villages in the hinterlands.
Does Jill really blow and is Ned a freak?
Half a journey’s stories subtracted,
Placate the mind’s conjuring additions.
I’m walking the tracks over you,
Can’t sleep its true. Waiting
To get my due as the locomotive
Comes on through.

Part of the problem is the lack
Of faith in rhyme and reason. Look
What it has brought us in this
Smog-ridden century, convolutions lusting
After the rightly unattainable.
Passing the container ships and
Their now undesired conundrums
Makes us a little less anxious
After all is said and unfinished.
The porters packing it in,
A last look to the sinking light
On the water. We nibble a dry sandwich,
Wait for cost analysis, etc.
You are more gargle than gargoyle
When you quietly go on.

The different ways music comes on
Is suddenly here holding sway
In tiny sponge earphones trying to keep
The roar of a airplane’s engine at bay.
And, the late evening quiet broken by
The rumble of a car
With thunderous bass ebbing, flowing
Away. Here Sibelius is washing
The walls of the room with
Subtle, forest depth. At work
The tired, repetitive songs from
Bygone years are lost in a glow
In amber on an oldies radio show.
But, still Miles Davis takes
Seven Steps to Heaven in elegant strides,
And I really want a ride.

It was open to conclusions,
Drawn possibly in crayon to perplex
The unwilling to willfully look
Beyond conjecture of a previously tired
Diffusion of text and message.

Never sure of the spin that evolves,
The take of the respondents, their addition
To the running the changes, carrying
The melody through forests of release,
Bumping up against the time of stay,

And away to the edges of final retort
Brings us with & against, coming &
Going. Walking in, & with traffic ’til
All avenues converge in resolve that
No one knew was coming or was even there.

The good fortune express has come
Shedding its goods on someone
We saw on t.v. with that wry smile,
Pretending its not transitory,
And only fifteen minutes long.
In the middle of it all we climaxed,
Led protest against the approval
Of the imprisoned choir. Totalitarian
Rule was just whispering in the background
At this time. The nomenklatura were quietly
Pounding keypads in the outer recesses.
Microwaves chimed up and down the complex halls
As “fingers to the bone” became the standard
Work routine. What happened

To the sylvan yesteryears that maybe never were?
Much info rolls across our screens undigested now.
The frenzy gathers on the walls. “This
Too shall pass,” quotes some raven.
Quickly devouring fast food we purchase
A moment of time on this bar stool,
Listening to platitudes of the lonely hearts.

Nothing holds.
No matter how much
You water it, the soul slips
Away. It lingers in the concert hall
As the end arrives it leaves
Collectively with all others
Wandering to the exits, disappearing

Into the night. A crew will clean up.
The silent edifice holds the nothing
That still remains. What we
Claim to know continues to enfold
Us in its cloak. It warms
The heart in transition like
The fireplace fire you unplug
In the coming of the light.

We’re coming on.
Just about to hit the spot.
Ask, and you shall be questioned.
Carry on, pass this way, no that way.
Look harder into….Those eyes just say it.
All out and about the robin did run.
Touchy, feely, please heel when I call.
Alabaster, mother of plaster, holder of lost
Prayers and causes raise your hands.
Clap, clap your silence over my ears.

Pass the suddenness.
Leaven out what holds.
Gather, parse out what fills.
Park on the escarpment, catch incoming.
The horizon then includes all views.

There is ever draining.
Your part is not always apparent.
Out walking in the frantic, stolid world of work
You face all those caught in their niche:
The cell phone talkers, the transient music lovers lost
In their reverie. And, those talking to themselves,
No audience or response needed.
The lines are long, hard to recall.
The tape hums, waits for instructions.

Across the lawn shadows advance
To the porch, the doorstep, enclosing
Finally the front room windows.

Barges gulp the breeze in the thick water.
The tide roils in and out flexing
Its inner ticking, tacking.

Out in the distance
Birds call to each other,
Challenge the vast sky with their songs.

Let this be centered near the closing,
Insistent, rambling, never satisfied heart.

Knowing the Truth in memory of Frank O’Hara

Turn out all those stop lights please
I’m on the go again
pack it up
put on your hat the caretaker is away
for the weekend your heart is allowed
to fly around at will once more

The curse of rubber stockings
in a bathysphere &
dreams of Asian babes
throwing parasols at you should
cease & desist
Pocket
the change from this segment of your life
The shop is locked
I don’t care
There are no dress rehearsals in this here
neck of the woods
Park the car
walk the wet street
Spinach or peas please
me I take this cup that
no one offers
that no one has to tell me is mine
ask the cashier where the nearest refill is

The light changes
& you with it
The cars are brightly colored
I can’t choose never could read a map
love a dog
eat a big lunch keep you happy
very long

To A Martyred Painter in memory of Mark Rothko

No one is thinking about you much anymore.
The large book of your paintings hasn’t been
Checked out in years.

I fear fashion has moved elsewhere.
You are the old master; there are
New reputations to be made.
I look at your solemn eyes,
Do not see the light that must
Have shone inside,
Spilled out into your hands

To glow from the canvases,
Pulse like your heartbeat.
Color hanging in the air
With your cigarette smoke:

Darkness of the mind, fire
Of the soul share their rectangular place.
Placed together where melancholy
Reigned & rained in the winter wet

Of NYC, where your breath
Flowed out amongst the buildings,
Days on end and out of your body
The last time. The colors gone.

There were accords left unsigned.
How shy we all seemed at the start.
Logs rolling in the distance left much
Unsaid. Speculation planted hope in
Building a new frontier. “Less said,
The better,” signaled the magistrate.
“The original natives endlessly complained,
Until we disposed of them.” The remainders
Became wayward servants.
We on occasion wear their outfits,
Enjoy some of their recipes, never ask
For seconds though, out of respect.

Denver, October 9. Noted UFO hunter Ronald Baker claims, “there are now many aliens from other worlds living among us who can assume human form and remain undetected to all but a rare few with experience in these things.” Mr. Baker does not claim to know any personally.

as thief

Rethought how about stealing years ago less abrasion
Less scuffling and squirming places have changed
In short it means a new year
Yet you couldn’t understand this
Thousands of miles against others them
They came out on top in all areas
And you they got you
Now you are hugging this place like a bear

a superior speaks

We tested for a hundred unbelievable makes
And we’re happy to report much since then
A long time this place
Was properly a good education

as native

The problem has been that it was
Ever since they were introduced
They wear out shoes and have been the hottest
Thing going keeping you awake nights glowing
You turn over look at this place
For months could they get along
Would they have you come back in the dark ages
To sit with monks and seedy nobles
Underneath these people are firm and tough

as citizen

Today some of the world have modern factories
In the machines I can see them
I’ve got three kids from a blonde
Again the bandit turns up
A loser why

Trained men working
With you it costs a fortune
Comfortable home heavenly glare
Today will glimmer

A few years from now worrying
Up doctors’ bills is useless

That some of them don’t wear
As well in some places is evident

We were asked to care for our own world
But I have learned to know them