Read a poem by another poet written
on the same day:

Poetry is the blue sky under clouds at dawn
is crow what cackles in early morning under Venus is
the sight of Venus, Mercury, Jupiter, Saturn & the half-moon reflecting in
people's eyes beyond the fire circle, a
form of hypnosis time-stop the brutal afternoon & think
of nothing but pure sound & the
expression of delight/amusement/amazement/liberation on your face.

Poetry is a blood-letting a blur near the edge of understanding
is too mysterious for
the Slaughter this time, perfunctory, troubling, perhaps the
basis
of
all decadence, revolt, the main threat—a
literary intifada what threatens the control of machine society what
forms notions dangerous in minds impressionable
and allows us to see breeze in your long hair
the
germ of dissidence
of psychological struggle     inner -&- outer   is there
a doctor in the house?
Wide-angle view from the soft, frothy shore
ranging from amoebic to the firmament w/ sensitivity to the wide
array
of consciousness available to the risen.
Artistic notions transcend the realm of skin become kin to
expressions of everything in                         the Buddafield, your own
Nature reflected back to you as Goddess Echo who
loves you, the game & the need to bleed     on
the   page   &   die   again        & again        & again.      The
absence
of indifference under the walnut tree @ sunset, the absence of
mistakes, just as it ever was.   Ashe!

8.28.01
w/ lines from David Henderson & Michael McClure