Clean my desk.
Look out the window forever.
Wait for the robin to bring the pomegranate seed of eternal
spring and sex to my backyard
and watch it grow and grow.
Get up in the morning and brush my hair. Just brush my hair.
Get up in the morning and then go back to sleep, pull her close to me,
fall down into the warm sea of her breath. It’s true,
it is that deep.
Buy an engine from the machine shop of night.
Order one starry dynamo,
and a bag of heavenly connection.
Tip the Angel Headed Hipster.
Learn how to repair my own Angelic car.
Listen to the radio, any station and weep at the miracle of language,
drink my tea, and agree with it all.
Buy an alarm clock that wakes me up
and puts on my clothes, and gives me plenty of time
to meditate and write.
Turn the water of the mind off
before it floods everything
and comes through the window
and ruins the couch of complacency
on which I nap.
Oh Let the water wake me. Be not afraid of your own mind’s water.
Quit writing, stop forever, lay down on the floor,
make amends for all the bad words and wrong words I have ever written,
burn something, weep, apologize to the dawn sky
because you have misused it so.
Take another nap.
Develop a healthy form of coma.
Learn to levitate over things that aren’t there.
Make a drip castle on the seashore of melancholia.
Fail the test of time.
Then create my own test,
but forget to study, fail it, then kick myself out of
my own school.
Not create anything to last.
Bring the trumpet of my sorrow to my lips, play it loud and bad, out the window of my 1942 Hope Street apartment, sending that note through the fire-escapes, down the curbs, through the car light, street light, through the light in the bones of the man drinking a cup of coffee at Jim’s Café, looking out the window, looking back at his hand, checking the clock on the wall, thinking it’s time and then laughing to himself, “Time for what?” Ah yes, the trumpet I will play.
Invent a math that I am expert in, that I know all the answers to, that I can use in my own personal sciences, measuring the arc of light that comes from my eyes and lands on your body and causes you to recline illuminated and awesome on the throne of my mind. That will be a good math.
Kiss myself good-bye, as I go to work.
Change the way I feel about emptiness.
Remember what I was going to say.
Say strange and beautiful things to anyone, especially when they aren’t listening.
Drop this class of time.
Apologize to the lady on the bus who I insulted last week, if I happen to see her again and I happen to feel like doing it, if I don’t get defensive and chicken out.
Paint my mind golden.
Find some paint that doesn’t peal off the mind.
Have fun, have lots and lots of fun, have the kind of fun that incites riots of envy and panics of desperation. Have so much fun that I get shot down like a balloon,
Be a Love Terrorist. Send love bombs in the mail, put love in cars, buses, in empty bottles of Sprite left behind Jon’s market on Vermont. Blow up everyone I see with a love bomb. Ka-Boom! There, you’re loved.
Talk positive to myself. Tell myself it’s all okay.
Convince myself that everything is fine.
Wait until tomorrow to really get started.
Begin when I finally get an idea.
Jump in when I find the confidence.
Execute some bad habits. Devise new ways of abolishing my hating and resentful mind to the backseat of the car that is me and drive myself into the timeless ocean of awareness that surrounds every molecular atomic breath of this very big now of universal bus ride love.
Think of old beatnik cafes in Venice and how lonely and faraway they must have been, on the slum ocean edge of 1940’s, 50’s Los Angeles, a city that barely even existed. living in the land of oblivion, high in the early morning low clouds shrouding the Lincoln Boulevard gas station, dirt lot sand lot next to that, Stuart Perkhoff writes Art is God is Love on the wall, which Wallace Berman said, and nobody is watching. But of course the god is always watching and that’s how I am thinking of it.
Open the doors of love. Take the door off the entrance of love. Love must have no door. It must be open. All the time and for all, but oh that is a scary and strange door to keep open when some asshole mafia type in Glendale driving 80 miles an hour almost kills you and your wife.
Oh for this I must take down the walls of love. Let love out of the room.
Realize finally that it was out of the room all along.
Witness the energy of a second grade sock ball game with my daughter as the sun goes down and an airplane flies by, and the smog and dust and city junk is lit the tender pink of life and death.
BB
