POEMS BY RICHARD KRECH

from Berkeley Daze

 


 
Raga No 1. Sanskrit Translation of the Earth

They drink Scotch for status
the old maharajahs;
have 3 or four servants,
sit around in a dilapidated house
watching the Jeep
drive across the horizon . . . .

They hallucinate giraffes, antelopes,
the navel of Buddha
riding across
the ocean
floor.

1954, what
more
could you expect them to do.

The world falling apart
at its stitches.

 

driving high in the hills: a good trip

You, sitting there
next to the window; the words
all spread out like blue flowing streams
the red woods of big sur & the cross-hatched sampler
of fuzzy lsd forests sliding by your window
on the sharp curves
& steep hills of the night road
as we drive deeper in-
to the forest
beyond the orange sky
and the purple hills
of the evening!

Your brown fur coat
wrapped about your nakedness,
your body, your openness
to the world you see about you
your kindness, knowledge
& beauty:
"if that cop knew
how beautiful he was
he couldn't kill anyone"

You say it all,
in a smile
your eyes
the way you look at me
it's all wrapped up
in your fur coat.

 

Telegraph Avenue Poem
-section .13

Jean Genet walking up the Avenue
past the Mediterraneum.

The two men from France
last night, explaining what they mean
by Marxism-Leninism.

Goddard's film
"See You At Mao" poorly received
by the audience. "Is it possible
to have a revolutionary film
that is entertaining?" - question from floor.

"If you think struggle and sacrifice
is entertaining:" he says,

estranged from the audience by $2
and hundreds of years of history.

The girl weatherman
shaking as I hold her in my arms,
she talking about a charge
thru police lines in Chicago
last October.

The F.B.I. agent on the corner
saying "hello Richard" as we pass.
The man from Scotland Yard
and the beat cop following,
making a surveying party of 3
on notorious Telegraph Avenue, Berkeley.

I saw Genet
walking towards campus.

 

The Thief in Big Sur

Long rides
up the California Coast. Pausing
for a drink of water
half-way up from Gordo,

driving away from the motel restaurant
the waitress
still yelling as the car

turns onto the highway.

Walking around Monterey
half starving all evening

then

early morning taking the key
from the dresser
& carefully removing the tips
from her uniform

cautious not to wake
the sleeping beauty. Drive carefully
five blocks toward the bay
so hungry

& the taste of stale popcorn
the only meal that day
in his mouth.

She came walking down
to the Foster's Freeze
half an hour
later,

sat in her car for an hour
& cried

while he watched her
thru the glass
still eating his hamburger.

Foggy parties
up Palo Colorado Road
where M. & I turned on
with the two hitch hikers
a year or so later.

The coast
with its constant travelers
hitching up from Redwood Lodge
to Jap Flats
where everyone swam naked
all day

amused by the fishermen
in their high rubber boots
who stared at us

in disbelief. We laughing,
young

the music going on forever

 

You Must Think of It as a Dance

the Way the Players move
from table to table.

the Way they take each other home.

learning survival.
the cool world outside our fingertips
just a shot away...

The tape recorder, hypodermic needle
just end-points of a culture
blasted by technology,

find the Real path out of the jungle,
miss neither forest nor trees.
Leave no fingerprints
at the scene of the crime,

fly safely
and take care of your brother.

Your sister is waiting on the bed
or the bar stool

for your rough hands and soft mouth.

The pull of gravity effecting tides.
Civilizations loose their grip
as years pass.

The 8 ball heading towards the pocket.

 

Sgt. Pepper. Where

  Sgt. Pepper. Where
are your soldiers now? - they've been seen
                                           wandering
down crystal shattered lanes
the fragments converging
on one point. the end

of a needle
puncturing a paraffin vein,
the days going in...

hours,
spent getting
the exact sensation.

"It's pretty much the same" he said,
"More money passes thru your hands,
but you're in the same position."
his words fading
as he spins into another nightmare/

                                                  Old sailors
stumble into the afternoon dust
of a cob-web,
the corners of the room
going faint.

Rip Van Winkle sleeping. The corner
of his laugh
turned-in. His volume boosted
by amplifiers.
  In turn
boosted from record stores. The whole world
a big burn.

  Acid salesmen
carrying guns
to keep from being robbed. The whole scene

going down Your drain,
Heroin;
getting fat
off the skinny bodies

               the way you make them
               crawl/

 

Mythology for the People's Liberation

The poem begins in the last garden
of the courtyard.
A vast labyrinth of sound
winding down to this moment,
this muffling of voices.
Private comments lost in the wind.

A fat sun disappearing
behind the crater like mountains
the seated rise from their wooden benches,
sunset making their outlines
hardedge red.

They move thru the white adobe walls
of the palace,
fine glasses tinkling.
Stare passionately out at the valley
growing from their feet
on up to the stars
coming out one by one
they slip off into the cover of darkness
to perform their tasks.

ARABESQUE THEATER FANTASY!
These people are real!
going about their tasks daily
in your neighborhood when you are not at home.

The poem is not changed
to incriminate the guilty,

for they are guilty
beyond any shadow of a doubt.

The poem's main purpose
is to see justice carried out.

Lighting the fuse of the imagination,
drawing events together, amid sparking
flashing gun powder cool air ticking
pointing the way.

THE LOGICAL EXPLOSION OF HYPOTHESIS

Oh Lady, on the fourth day of his mission
when he found the keys
of the enemy
in your purse he had to
disregard your sensibilities.

Murder after sex
isn't the natural order of the universe
but neither are the crimes
daily pushing the people towards revolution.

WE WILL CELEBRATE
WITH SUCH FIERCE DANCING   THE DEATH
OF YOUR INSTITUTIONS

Oh, the smoke will rise
for many miles around
purifying the air
and no longer will our nights
be plagued by industrial fog,
purple skies.

NIGHTCLUB. BILLY COP. BE BOP
"GOT ANY IDENTIFICATION, BOY"
BLUES

It's all going to be
a brand new history
written by our children.
Our job is to wipe the slate
clean.

"Maybe by the time I'm thirty" he said
"there won't be such a thing
as over thirty."
                                           They nodded silently
and parted in different directions.

The empty palace sat still for a few minutes
before dissolving
to assume its new role
in the revolution.

The eyes watching this scene
turn inward,
while the paper you are holding
and your hands
begin to tremble.

 


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