 Ruin limping vehicles filled with shaggy mouth, youthful gangsters hunting the human dog with stilettos of fear and dreams of money, sex money, cars money, suits money, shoes money, muscles money, houses money, hair money, pearly teeth money, pointed shoes money, hats money, money success brass by money, gnarled hands of lanky editorial writers, false teeth, credit dentists, cheap meat, queer butchers, editorial chasted bus drivers, eye shadow sales girls, all American football businessmen, hollow thighs, supermarket clerks, money, flag makers, money, mountain movers, money, car makers, money, money, eyed raw material citizens, pulped of money, landscapes of holy money, time, musical voices of tiny money children, cushion noises of disintegration still heard in dynastic eras of power, skeleton stooped in scooped-out offices of company wives, husbands, custodians of domestic fear, fear, terror for still harder, hay, then breathers lurking behind neo-tombstones, singing out corpse voice arias while blistling veaks complain, money, money, historical events, a pollinaire never knew about rock-gut Charlie who gave 50 cents to a policeman driving around in a 1927 Nash, a pollinaire never met Cinder, bottom blue, fat saxophone player who laughed while playing and had steel teeth, a pollinaire never hiked in papier maché woods and had a scout master who wrote a song about ivory soap and had a Baptist funeral, a pollinaire never sailed with riff-raff Ralph who was rich in California but had to flee because he was queer, a pollinaire never drank with lady choppy wine, peerless female drunk who talked to shrubs and made children sing in the streets, a pollinaire never slept all night in an ice house waiting for Sebastian to rise from the ammonia tanks and show him the little un-painted arrows, heavy water blues, oh is teaching my goldfish jujitsu, I'm in love with a skin diver who sleeps underwater, my neighbors are drunken linguists and I speak butterfly, consolidated Edison is threatening to cut off my brain, the postman keeps putting sex in my mailbox, my mirror died and can't tell if I still reflect, I put my eyes on a diet, my tears are gaining too much weight, I cross the desert in a taxi cab only to be locked in a pyramid with a face of a dog on my breath, I went to a masquerade disguised as myself, not one of my friends recognized, I dreamed I went to John Mitchell's poetry party in my maiden form brain, put the silver in the barbecue pit, the Chinese are attacking with nuclear restaurants, the radio is teaching my goldfish jujitsu, my old lady has taken up skin diving and sleeps underwater, I'm hanging out with a drunken linguist who can speak butterfly and represents the caterpillar industry down in Washington DC, I never understand other people's desires or hopes until they coincide with my own and then we clash, I have definite proof that the culture of the caveman disappeared due to his inability to produce one magazine that could be delivered by a kid on a bicycle, when reading all those thick books on the life of God it should be noted that they were all written by men, it is perfectly all right to cast the first stone if you have some more in your pocket, television America's ultimate relief from the Indian disturbance, I hope that when the machines finally take over they won't build men that break down as soon as they're paid for, I shall refuse to go to the moon unless I'm inoculated against the dangers of indiscriminate love, after riding across the desert in a taxi cab he discovered himself locked in a pyramid with the face of a dog on his breath the search for the end of the circle constant occupation of squares why don't they stop throwing symbols the air is cluttered enough with echoes just when I cleaned the manger for the wise men the shrews from across the street showed up the voice of the radio shouted get up do something to someone but me and my son laughed in our furnished room get a great sense of humor too there's a lineage poem afterwards they shall dance in the city of st. Francis they have taken down the statue of st. Francis and the hummingbirds all fly forward to protest humming feather poems Bowdenheim denounced everyone and wrote Bowdenheim had no sweet marijuana dreams patriotic musculatier did not die seriously no poet loved to end with gone Dylan took the stone cat snap at st. Vincent's that a canned beer no defense that poem shouted from none filled room an insult to the brain's nerve saved now from swansy white horses beer birds snore poems wales bird billy holiday got lost on the subway and stayed there forever raised little peace of mind gardens in out-of-the-way stations and will go on living in wrappers of jazz silence forever loved my face feels like a living emotional relief map forever when my hair is curling in anticipation of my own wild gardening poor Edgar Allen Poe died translated in un-pressed pants ended in light surrounded by ecstatic gold bugs his hadjura blessed by Baudelaire's orgy whether I am a poet or not I use $50 worth of air every day cool in order to exist I hide behind stacks of red and blue poems and open little sensuous parasols singing the nail in the foot song drinking cool beatitude waiting somewhere there waits waiting a book is waiting waiting to be written cold cold page is waiting to be written man sees god in a book somewhere there waits waiting a picture waits waiting to be painted cold cold campus campus waiting to be painted man seeks god in a picture somewhere there waits waiting a woman waiting waiting to be loved waiting cold cold woman waiting to be loved man seeks god in a woman somewhere there waits waiting a man is waiting Waiting, cold, cold, cold man, waiting to be wanted, waiting. Man seeks God in man. Somewhere there waits waiting. A baby is waiting, waiting, waiting, waiting to be born. Cold, cold, baby, waiting to be born. Blood of earth waiting to be man sees God in a baby. Wind, sea, stars, sky, surround us. Wind, sea, wind, sea, wind, sky, wind, star, surround us. Wind, sea, sky, stars, surround us. Sarasvati, may Sarasvati give thee intelligence entwined with the lotus. Thou art produced from limb by limb, but of the heart. Thou indeed are the self-called son. So live 100 autums. May Sarasvati give thee intelligence. Reflections on a small parade. When I see the little Buddhist scouts marching with their Zen mothers to see. When I see the little Buddhist scouts marching with their Zen mothers to tea ceremonies at the rock garden, I shake my head. It falls off. And this is a piece called Chenrezig, Walks With Us. Chenrezig, a Buddhist deity. Dalai Lama is an incarnation of Chenrezig. Visualized with many arms. So this is a little mantra. Swept away all suffering, gathered it up in a quantum leap. Sucked it up till it returned. And when Chenrezig looked back over his shoulder and saw all suffering come back in a great wave, all suffering, riding in, filling up nooks and crannies and crevices and templates of the world, all suffering, filling neurons and quarks and leptons, troubling minds of mothers, sisters, brothers, fathers, lovers, all sentient beings, suffering, toxins of passion, aggression, ignorance in the middle of the night, strapped in demon mind, nowhere to hide, pounding, suffering, rising and mind splits in 1,000 pieces. Chenrezig wept and head split in 1,000 pieces. And mighty fire Buddha Amitabha leans in Amitabha, puts the puzzle back together, wires it with tantric thread, adds some extra arms, extra heads, a conglomeration of tendencies, this wisdom body to rid the world of all suffering. More arms and heads take charge, build it better, a deity to maximize power, a bodhicitta to ease all suffering. And now Chenrezig had 1,000 arms in all directions of space, 1,000 arms with numerous accoutrements. And under those arms 1,000 hearts better to banish all suffering, all suffering of Tibet, of India, suffering of Pakistan, wherever his crystallized land, whatever map of suffering, holy lights on, holy lights on, keep emptying. Europe, USA, empty, Israel, Palestine empty, China, Russia, Japan 11 heads with 11, third eyes and more, wisdom eyes in all the pores of his body. Chenrezig walks among us, humble prince toward all systems of empire. Chenrezig walks among us, all constituent, forms precious ink, diamonds, scepter, skull, cup of blood, thibone, trumpet, dissolve in mind, and lotus at his feet arises again through cracks of a concrete city, or charnel grounds, eternal war, sore flowers shoot at dark of a distant galaxy. Anywhere out of this world his heart is that big, and Dharma gates are endless. He enters every one of them, typhoons and famines dissolve. Emptiness has formed to come at you. Blow back his love, his love, come back at your multiverse. Move in the night that never sets, is it cold out there? Will Tibet be liberated on judgment day? Oh, suffering, oh, suffer, but a lamp of the dark age. Banish, banish, banish the syndicates of Tamsara. Put away the checks of doom, turn the wheel again in our frail world age. Oh, Chen Resig walks among us, and no identity endures. Yet bodhisattvas are ever active, invisible, elves swirling shamans, shape-shifting wizards, every hour dedicating the merit. No end time here, but aspiration to press harder. Don't tarry, don't tarry, don't tarry, don't tarry. Keep trying, sweep all suffering away, all pockets of the multiverse. Don't tarry. Bob was a Buddhist too, a great spiritual poet.