heedless larks dumdum bullets

suddenly shoot out of the sky—

wind wipes away this blue stupor

gold grass quivering

clouds volatile as carbonic acid

cherry shines white in the sun.

A BREAK

Up in that gaudy space’s

upper section a buttercup is blooming

(high-class buttercup it is but

rather than butter, from sulphur and honey)

below that, wild parsley and clover

and a dragonfly of worked tinplate.

rain crackles,

oriole cries in the

silverberry tree …

stretch out on the grass,

there’s white and black both in the clouds;

it all goes shining, seething up.

fling off my hat it’s the sooty cap of a mushroom

roll over and tilt my head back

over the edge of the dike.

yawn; shiny demons come out of space.

this hay’s soft, it’s a first-rate bed.

clouds all picked to bits,

the blue becomes eyes in a huge net, an

underlying glimmering steel plate

oriole without break—

sunshining       crackling

DAWN

Rolling snow turned peach-color

the moon

left alone in the fading night

makes a soft cry in the heavens

and once more

drinks up the scattered light

(parasamgate, bodhi, svaha!)

SOME VIEWS CONCERNING THE PROPOSED SITE OF A NATIONAL PARK

Well how do you like this lava flow?

not very scenic, is it.

don’t know how long ago it was spit out

on a sunny day like this you see the heat waves

just like a huge pan

and the snow up on the peak blue and simmering

say, have a sandwich.

why on earth don’t you want to

develop this area?

it’s a real good possibility—

mountains all around

crater lakes, hot springs, right there.

Saddle Mountain

well of course Saddle Mountain

and that big crater’s probably

older than hell itself.

why sure! you could fix it up like Hell

with a real oriental charm to it, huh

a stockade of red spears

weird-shaped old dead trees put around

and plant flowers here and there,

well, flowers, I mean sort of things like uh

jimsonweed and viper grass

black wolfsbane and such

anyhow, make it gruesome, huh.

tourists will flock from all over.

we could get some mean looking guys

shave their heads

and make gates out of rock here and there

and drag the folks that come, around barefoot

—you know—

by the “cuckoo singing on the path after death”

and the “ford of the river of the three ways”

“the gate to the new womb” at Yama’s office

then, having expiated all their sins

we can sell them certificated for Heaven.

afterwards—at those three wooded hills

we could put on symphonies, huh

first movement: allegro con brio, like springing forth

second movement: sort of “andante”

third movement: like a lament

fourth movement: feeling of death

you know how it goes—at first kind of sorrowful

then bit by bit getting joyous.

at the end, on this side of the hill

hide two field-cannons