When I am at a dead-lock In your rear and the language of my body Will not come from The third element of the soul, What am I to say?-- 'ALL BUT ONE DEAD: Mexican immigrants celebrating the Stowing away on a 120 degree boxcar With urine in their stomachs, Acknowledging capitalistic thirsts... Sigue sobre pagina".. Double hubble The peso is in trouble And to Mars America plans Jumping over the moon, And all this has disturbed me!" The night is full of impulses To live and to run and seep heavily Into its dark robes of Silence and morbid rightness; And as I, again, try to thrust on dryly-- A log without a river traveling it To the product of lumber-- and hope to create love in The smackings of night, Like anyone else, I know that soon I am to apologize for lack Of an ejaculation, And will promise to have a counselor Tame me to the exclusion of All but work and lust. Sounds of people Kicking around the Night of early morning Beneath my lover's window; And I withdraw under the sheet, lying flat with the dead moonlight. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- - The Philosophy Of Rita And Herb Staring fixed at the rows Of flowered Wallpaper a pale gray In the dark efficiency-- The three walls still absent To her consciousness As a shadow of silver lightning Fades the greyness Of one portion in her view-- The "schitzophrenic" lifts up a cigarette hidden behind An ashtray and the flat ground Of ashes on the table, which Skid and resurface with her Hot breathing. She thinks they are Continents drifting, and herself Upon them. From feeling stiff and pushed under-- Numb to the point of a corpse-- With insecurity enough not to remember, Even, her ABC's, Rita runs into the night Where outside of a window She blesses the workers making Colonial bread. An old man in a cowboy hat, Herb, Is saddled on the wooden railing of a porch To an apartment complex: seated there beside a remembrance Of a young woman like Rita. And in the spitting fumes; bad-muffler sounds; The rocking phallicism in radio music of passing cars, He feels he has to move or die And gets down To his pickup. And Rita, upon dawn and upon the end of rain, Walks the streets again after tiring, Ready to go back and confront the curfew-conscious Group home, and the "zero" on her record full of Zeros. She worries about carrying in her womb A mini-Herb with scabs of grey hair And little pot-holes in his tiny face, Though she is still a virgin. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- - Estivation Weekends in Tranquility Park-- With the downtown buildings, hallways of giants clustered, Exhaling the coolness echoed From the rectangular mouths of doors Opened and closed by cityers-- A coolness came over my thoughts The way lack of wind contains The hastening of Yosemite's flames.