MCCLURE, Michael

McCLURE, Michael

Winter Solstice

endless space

in tiny explosions of gasoline

my consciousness hardens into a wall.

I AM SEPARATE

from plum blossoms and mountains:

aching teeth become movies

as I grow

young again.

Dark hair

and eyebrows

in delighted delusion

BIG MEMORIES OF PLEASURE

enwrap a mind

as substantial

drift

snowflakes

onto a warm hood;

and less intelligent

than the thin

black

spider in the morning sink

before breakfast time.

Your smile is my kindness

and it thrills me

HAVE

NEVER

BEEN

REAL

Before

Cameo One

WE HAVE GONE

GONE. GONE

in the hole where

soul swells

into

nothing

leaving solid space

where profiles

of gods and fairies

are carved

and

finely

polished

by the clanking of trucks,

thunder-shaking

waves,

and the taste of mangos.

Peyote Poem

…..

Clear — the senses bright — sitting in the black chair — Rocker —

the white walls reflecting the color of clouds

moving over the sun. Intimacies! The rooms

not important — but like divisions of all space

of all hideousness and beauty. I hear

the music of myself and write it down

for no one to read. I pass fantasies as they

sing to me with Circe-Voices. I visit

among the peoples of myself and know all

I need to know.

I KNOW EVERYTHING! I PASS INTO THE ROOM

there is a golden bed radiating all light

the air is full of silver hangings and sheathes

I smile to myself. I know

all that there is to know. I see all there

is to feel. I am friendly with the ache

in my belly. The answer

to love is my voice. There is no Time!

No answers. The answer to feeling is my feeling.

The answer to joy is joy without feeling.

The room is a multicolored cherub

of air and bright colors. The pain in my stomach

is warm and tender. I am smiling. The pain

is many pointed, without anguish.

Light changes the room from yellows to violet!

The dark brown space behind the door is precious

intimate, silent and still. The birthplace

of Brahms. I know

all that I need to know. There is no hurry.

I read the meanings of scratched walls and cracked ceilings.

I am separate. I close my eyes in divinity and pain.

I blink in solemnity and unsolemn joy.

I smile at myself in my movements. Walking

I step higher in carefulness. I fill

space with myself. I see the secret and distinct

patterns of smoke from my mouth

I am without care part of all. Distinct.

I am separate from gloom and beauty. I see all.

…..

Death Poems II

DEATH IS COMPRISED OF DEEP BLUE TORTURES

and filled with dark chocolate cake.

Birth has gone with the losses

of endless imagination.

A round brown leaf whirls at the tip

of a spider thread.

Winter

I will study

the whiteness of plum blossoms

and look for knots in an old trunk

at the edge of the forest fire

near some deer bones.

The Child

Who were the Lion Men who walked in my dreams

when I was a fat and sleeping babe

in a room whose walls were miracles?
Who were the lion men with faces of fur
and manes
who bent by my crib to bless me?
Was it they who implanted the scroll

that said ‘I’m the maker of my spirit and soul’?

I see myself as I slept-
all sleeping infants are sizeless and giants

dreaming in a universe immeasurable
with plump legs sprawled upon shining quilted sheets
AND OVER ME THEY TOWERED.
and I was tiny in their passage.
I remember their pointed teeth and whiskers as they stooped
to smile-and the scent of their fur in the room.

WHO AM I?-I CAN’T REMEMBER.

But I know
I’m the strength
of a million loves!

Mercedes Benz

Oh lord won’t you by me a Mercedes Benz
My friends all drive Porsches, I must make amends.
Worked hard all my lifetime, no help from my friends.
So oh lord won't you buy me a Mercedes Benz.

Oh lord won't you buy me a color TV.
Dialing for Dollars is trying to find me.
I wait for delivery each day until 3.
So oh lord won't you buy me a color TV.

Oh lord won't you buy me a night on the town.
I'm counting on you lord, please don't let me down.
Prove that you love me and buy the next round.
Oh lord won't you buy me a night on the town.

(Everybody ,) Oh lord won't you buy me a Mercedes Benz.
My friends all drive Porsches, I must make amends.
Worked hard all my lifetime, no help from my friends.
So oh lord won't you buy me a Mercedes Benz.

I'm an Eagle in the Whirlpool

I'm the fox of reason.

I have had my head bent for truth and treason.

I'm a star in the sunny moon light.

I'm the stumbling fool.

I'm the horse of night

careening on the cliff of flight.

Won't you kiss me?

Won't you hug me?

Please

tell me my name.

I'm the hand of April

with my fingers made of fame.

Come kiss me on my elbow.

Bless

mind

good night.

Sweet old flame.

Bless my mind goodnight.

Come kiss me on my elbow.

With my fingers made of fame,

I'm the hand of April.

Tell me my name.

Please,

won't you hug me?

Won't you kiss me?

Careening on the cliff of flight.

I'm the horse of night.

I'm the stumbling fool.

I'm a star in the sunny noon light.

I have had my head bent for truth and treason.

I'm the fox of reason.

I'm an eagle in the whirlpool.

¡El Cerro es nuestro!

THE FLAME IS OURS!

We are the candle

that holds itself

aloft.

We are the Andes

among creatures

and our hands are soft

and our cotex

is a beacon

as are our toes.

You and I

are a river of light

that pours

and gleams

the

blue-black

snows.

We are perfect

as the tooth

of a squirrel!

--Lima-Huancayo railroad, Peru

For Jack Kerouac: The Chamber

…..

IN DARK HELL IN LIGHT ROOM IN UMBER AND CHROME I feel the swell of

smoke the drain and flow of motion of exhaustion, the long sounds of cars the brown shadows

on the wall. I sit or stand. Caught in the net of glints from corner table to dull plane

from knob to floor, angles of flat light, daggers of beams. Staring at love's face.

The telephone in cataleptic light. Matchflames of blue and red seen in the clear grain.

I see myself -- ourselves in Hell without radiance. Reflections that we are.

The long cars make sounds and brown shadows over the wall.

I am real as you are real whom I speak to.

I raise my head, see over the edge of my nose. Look up

and see nothing is changed. There is no flash

to my eyes. No change to the room.

Vita Nuova--No! The dead, dead, world.

The strain of desire is only a heroic gesture.

An agony to be so in pain without release

when love is a word or kiss.