Paul Doughty

A VISION OF RIMEAUD

I
Vision

A tossing dream on a chill and windswept night
Blew like alle'afaloft the autumn breeze

The image of a man or boy—— his age was caught

By summer, by winter, held steadfast in between;
His hairless face emerged from weathered skin:
The green of a leaf contrasts its yellowed edge.

His gold-specked eyes spoke visions of visions

And down sight passed to trembling, sundanced lips,
"This autumn night demands of you a choice:

To sink till death or leave to search for life."

ll
Journey

“Esmpe: one must set out another way,
For life's a listless lake for countless men
Where waves turn ice, seal fiast all futile sway.

While still afloat a few see through this fen
0f sucking surf that freezes dreams below,
And splash through phlegm and scum to live again

On land, yet still they must climb on, for though
Land seems Edenic, devoid of g‘reenlesshess,
The eyes deceive, green leaves must fall, yellow.

Though death-grey days have welled with weariness
And made mere shadow seem the very sun,
Qie must fly far from lands as visionless

As dead, grope drunk through limbdworlds and shun
Shadow past shadow, to seek the unseen sun."

In
Flight

He paused a while, stared blankly at the sky
Which slowly grew lighter, slowly lighter,
Then turned slowly round, and stared miles through my eyes
As if, instead, a strayed, still cloud were there.
A moment passed; prismatic words poured forth
, (They seemed to shine, to stream from the sky, although
The lips that moved, the voice Iheard were his),
"A poet must first stake out the fierce unknown,
Must cage the beast with sharpened spears all round,
With spears of narrow, measured metaphor.
He then must rest while the shadow of night grows faint;
Prepare, as ancient Greeks, for battle’s call.
At dawn he must defeat the beast with words
Ofperfect description. And dawn may ever arrive
For poet, pilgrim lost in the shroud of night
If only eyes will open wide as the windl"
Entranced, I'd barely drunk his words before
Resplendent eyes transformed the poet's face,
And brighter, brighter, they seemed to merge in one
Tremendous light that forced my eyes unshut.
I blinked, sat up, looked round and saw the sun
Upon the bed. I felt, more than 1 lmew,
From deep inside my voice had broken through!

Dave Hechler

FOUR FOR HAN-SHAN
l.
of the time the mule lost his shackle
and ran
into the dustrmud of far off valleysi
we down climbed to find him,
hopjumping over the puddles Hanrshan had to have
urinated in
and over the cold mountains the ants made with their six hands.
and walked, tripped: Stranger -we all caught god
his voice
flying kites- ,
we blew saliva bubbles at all the water falls
and laughed blue at god in the cliff (precipice).
we drank wine until purple bellies
and smelled of god‘s, himself, vomit.

of the time whores came down to us from the trees.
liberated we were (we blew it, whispered Pete Fonda)
and off to the mule who escaped from a bondage on the mountain.

ll.
of the cats of Haanhan
of slithering phallic felines
through open windows and attic~ roof shingles.
country cats mazing through sewage wastes
with war surplus desenex~ twelve glued to their feet
*spasm hop from battleaxe rocks to indian head arrows.

of holy hindu tats ravaging the rules of dreadful reminiscenses.
of fun, for radiator cats who chase radiator rats.

III.
of laughing at everything, being half—insane
but poetic.

of us all. but only Cold Mountain could hold
Haanhan

of being a beggar with a sidekick, singing to amuse
oneself, working in the gallies of the half-sane.

IV.
of the cats of Han-Shani
of catastrophic attheads strewn about
crazily, by wartime eats, fascist cats:
commuter city mts, (Etching toxic doses of mechanical poison.
computer cats of regulated heads, born to be invigorated yearly
on desolation mountain in miami

(where I (an sit and count those
desolation eyebrows)
- Doug Frosh

glass eye
old eye brown
glass to brown skin

slit lids
hair down lonely homely
The Ballad of Clifford Crow » beer smell

Clifford Crow, with soul unsightly, visions wagon rolls

Leaves the Mission door ajar
Stepping out with gait unsprightly
Looking for a railroad car.

Clifford Crow, with sex uncertain,
Loiters at Convention Hall
Thinking he (an stop his hurtin

In a ten-cent men's room stall.

Clifford, versed in men‘s room magic
Scales the wall with practiced ease
Twists his face, and looks quite tragic
Dropping quickly to his knees. '

Clifford aims with great concern
"Haste makes waste," Iheard him say
Then he comes, and eyelids burn
With chunks of dry cerebral clay.

Clifford listens fascinated
Hearing soon a dullish thud
Wishing now that he had waited
For his eyes to turn to mud.

Knowing that the men’s room shares him
With the ripe and futile night

Clifford leaves, but Clarence dares him
To uncork forgotten fright.

Lost again in contemplation
Clifford wanders aimlessly
Trapped inside the Grehound station
Buying tickets randomly.

We

along bottleslghting old men

cornea corpse bugling
past afternoons their crops
wisdom's ache

myopic flick you of age
less strength

open 0

ringing above sea
spume removed well
inland adventure

of ambered glass
dragon's teeth

scaled walls

Spanish dancers lighting match
pulsating vulva tapped
heels and toes

(clik clik)

over the Sawtooth
Moran Grand Teton
furpiece trapping
home

and gone
again swallow
blood rimmed
eyeglass

Brian Harris

ran Sonny, we ran when we saw
that Mother. We ran out there so fast, man
and that’s why we couldn‘t get it to

you.

Andrea Frey