when figures

when figures. with my aunty. catherine.sending me an american dollar once a month. the penmanship, whata peculiar word. later when in vancouver, i met a poet, a man whose breath stank of beer, and stale hearts, whose voice rumbled in my ear-head for a week. after. and on the farm in 1970, it was too late for him he had died. but Gwendolyn came by to see Alden, turned out he had met her, and she swept her eyes, across my face, my skin felt gleamed by her, and i was gone over Sheila.

but then we had heard the white-cap dancer before god voice speaking his poems, how young was I ? then

young, younger, almost not even a person, or a boy was I.
not troped by younger lads, or girls. who I kissed between the gravy train of movies, and their moving pictures. the golden era of television.

this poet in vancouver, early i was 12 it must have been.
his voice, crawled around my head. it was smithereens for him not much long after. a whirl wind of death's gape got him.

a figure of speach, a figure of diction, of speaking , he passe d on the seventh day of his sun, into the sky.
there an era ended with his going up the astral passages, the packages to the sun.

Magic return of ghostly figure to
titillate the soul,and imagination.

No more a symbol of reading , than a figure of writing. and its hammered toxic fumes. or the cigarette wafting smoke, curled above the eyes, the smoke, that is, like a smile, or old Uncle Tristan wishing venom on similes, but how else to do it,
we worked at language for a long time , after that, my lover.


of alphabets and other soups, of love. bodies, brains and heart.
heart of a heart in a heartless world.


on Seoul street, years, later, Jack Kerouac's French-Canadian cousins, showing me the news paper clippings ...

beside the doors of Blue Dog