For Ira Cohen (Cohen Poem)
Man, who knows the Rose
And the sorrowful voice
Of the sprout departing from the seed
The strength with which
It thrusts the cold, hard crust of the earth
And the mad faith of the stem
So confidently growing into the nothingness
And the voice of the little boy
Who's keep repeating on the street to himself
No, no, no, no, no
And the bloody fight of the thorns
Giving birth to dark and beautiful petals
And the sound of your anger
Towards all, who would take your heart
But can not be your companion.
You know how to wear the gold embroidered black silk robe
You were never ashamed to be a human and smell like a rose
Your voice is mine, Old Man of the City.
Your presence froze me.
I saw you, heard you, felt you,
Received you without reserve
As a motionless, speechless sea,
As a witch in the chamber of torture
Who could not reveal her secret,
The most unbreakable one,
That there is none,
For that would kill you.
And when you leaned over me
To make sure I was still conscious,
I rose my arms without a sigh
And embraced you.
I see a person and the cloud of the person.
Old soul crosses the limbo.
And two Invisibles.
Can we face each other?
This is me: Ambassador Locus(t)-3, from another genus locii.
This is me: Palace Minutiae in a big Circus.
Is this me or my reflection?
This is me: 1:1 scale map.
Reciprocal as the adoration
between a Triassic tree and a rock.
With the grandeur of the sheer quantity
at a stretch of a hand
And sweet disappearance possible, at last,
You were weighed
And found too light.
But, come inside of me,
See me fragile,
My crypto-biotic forms,
Reproducing the image of the Big Ones.
Or see my harsh, primitive beauty
See life indestructible.
And my ageless natural hanging gardens,
Way before the seven wonders of the Earth,
Images of innocent simplicity
And splendid anonymity.
And what do you have to offer for me?
Two-by-fours gently abducted, die erected!
Nothing is changing, everything is permanent.
Destined to be a chameleon.
But, first I'll turn you into a
Mushroom-humming-man in pajamas.
Huge, turban-like rock
Hanging down on your shoulders.
Carry it, if you wish,
Step out of it, if you can.
Abandon your human nature.
(Is there a different one,
A sober one,
With heavy escort to make it more believable?)
Or live gracefully
Not like the tuxedoed present
Meeting the raw elegance.
Visita terra interiora,
(animula, vlagula, blandula)
and rectify the gums of the mother ship.
May the wooden-lizard
First, you gave up your umbilical cord,
-Another door opened from inside to inside-
Then your head
-run, think, dream, dance,
dance, think, run, dream,
to the invisible.
No thoughts just absorbed in it.
There are no reductions.
You pay the whole amount,
Heartless rock, impenetrable wall,
Life is deserted in the desert.
Hanuman, the stone-carver with no tools,
some with canes some with wands:
You are my Winged Sun,
I wish to resume my travelling,
My body is too tired,
my mind too old.
The Lost Valley is highly popularized,
They know how to keep silent.
"I am mute but I can see.
I am mute but I still see."
Unbearable lion-love, you'll find there,
And another unknown tribe
Who carefully choose their home-address:
Peeling Rock, the 7th skin of the Earth.
But it moves, it curves!
Saw it with my eyes.
This is a well-balanced soccer-game
As you wish.
Or a flight above the Moon,
With your fists tight and empty.
The Big Lonely, following us in the distance,
Begging us to be his companion
If only for a fractal of the time.
Light floods the empty canyons,
Life after death, white after red.
As above thus below.
Wish you were closer,
Sunken in white.
Space as piñon aroma.
Mute woo-doos show us the way
Simulation of the builder
Who built his wife into the walls
To keep them erect.
-But my castle is right here,
In this wild seduction.-
Woo-doos turn into pines
Growing rather from inside,
Living behind the army of the silent killers
Yielding to hosts of new thoughts,
To fragile traces of the human beings.
To lush paradise, dreamt by the desert,
Sought for with eagle-eyes.
I going to build a stair into the sky.
Then something purple shows up,
Breaking the eternal love of the silver-sage
For the sun burnt red rock with the
Wrinkled handkerchief and the faded map
Or just an old Zen painting.
Day and night.
The desert thinking about the city
The city dreaming about the desert
Everything in the solitude of it's own self-shadow
Waiting for the riddle to be read,
To wake up again in the mausoleum
of the metamorphosis,
In the skeleton of a 200 million year old landscape
Or in the quiet, sterile laboratory
With cut wood-bone-stone crystals.