A Song for the Seeker Up S**t Creek.

A Song for the Seeker Up S**t Creek.

Him been hearing stories all too long,
sorry folklore, crummy like some owl shit,
He found naked as lies in da creek,
Him wading in his pants through sloughs,
Him angry at the toe-steps
& the be-all offerings to love
& to never-ceasing voices
& to the myriads of ghostlings again
& to fears yet shaved
& to promises unrequited, yet:

He smiles, saying:
the izdats around me fool nobody, so
others may tell they stories
like when
my baby bought a dozen cheap stogies for a dollar
from prophets back out where
the many raced barefooted
into’m dark woods, oh
& the City stank too much
& the Posers posed too much
& He stopped Him in the creek
muttering paeans to Old quests
& Him rolling Hambones,
& Him opting to stay still
& Him hearing all-a da while
saying:

I’m gettin me headbone mad, me
& MY eyes go green at them
holding naked flesh.
Me wonnerin why me ever loathing,
greasy me?
What sound of cold,
wood-tried grass
them prophets
they shimmer
my ass in here
so
egg-sistence great,
like creek sand
& GRASS-loving Hair,
so
me tangled fully the Pop-Oedipuses,
them be my now, my
dark standing & incarnetty,
Home down, you know,
back to NEW-Bardy-YORK,
classical Testament-against-flesh
for who’s more likely to cop
a short infinitum fully but
the He that loved great stoners waiting
& them remote
& Homemade sweating
& adoring the prophet
at the All Spot Inn?

Remind me, I’ve nearly forgotten

The transcendent Him predicting
undenounced knocking again
when the BERKELEY GRASS
& the Suit boots
see Humm Runs above
& legs be-low
de-SPITE
& Until
you handroll spliffs fully now.

God’s Taoism is so circular in Cut-offs,
this great little out-of,
DOWN-to long, true story
she smoked green grass
& SOLD her swirl of
Better All Cigarettes.

Like I was saying,
great stories get told
again and again
until nobody can stand
hearing em any more.

All that unrequited love
& the fleshy quests
wearing Himself
down to a greasy spot.

So when He had tried
the Cop’s Hambones
He liked them so much
(better than Home Runs)
He raced back to the Mountings.
He shaved his Beard
& Cut his Hair Short
& bought a City Suit
& Homemade Him Cigarettes.

Him wasted Him fifty years.

God ceasing to be
transcendent and remote
becoming instead flesh
fully incarcerate
fully in the here-and-whenever
weaving underground mittens
IN SPITE OF me
been loving you a little too long
(to stop now), oh baby,

me holding pants in hand
wading the creek
(SOLD MY BERKELEY GRASS
I’M DOWN TO MY NEW YORK ASS)
are you waiting for me?

FiSh knocking against my naked legs
watch out, baby, my baby boots
above my head
in the other hand
wood & tangled grass aswirl
around my belly up shit creek
(sound of an owl in the dark woods).

This is true of both
the great Old Testament prophets
& of the great prophets
of classical Taoism in China.
Pop-
ular folklore sees the prophet
as one who predicts then
forgets before he dies.

Slog the creek no more, baby.
Slog that shitty creek no more.

.
domaine du réal (directed by R Young)

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