Transcription Of Organ Music

The flower in the glass peanut bottle formerly in the

      kitchen crooked to take a place in the light,

the closet door opened, because I used it before, it

      kindly stayed open waiting for me, its owner.

I began to feel my misery in pallet on floor, listening

      to music, my misery, that's why I want to sing.

The room closed down on me, I expected the presence

      of the Creator, I saw my gray painted walls and

      ceiling, they contained my room, they contained

      me

as the sky contained my garden,

I opened my door

      The rambler vine climbed up the cottage post,

the leaves in the night still where the day had placed

them, the animal heads of the flowers where they had

arisen

          to think at the sun

      Can I bring back the words? Will thought of

transcription haze my mental open eye?

      The kindly search for growth, the gracious de-

sire to exist of the flowers, my near ecstasy at existing

among them

      The privilege to witness my existence-you too

must seek the sun…

      My books piled up before me for my use

      waiting in space where I placed them, they

haven't disappeared, time's left its remnants and qual-

ities for me to use—my words piled up, my texts, my

manuscripts, my loves.

      I had a moment of clarity, saw the feeling in

the heart of things, walked out to the garden crying.

      Saw the red blossoms in the night light, sun's

gone, they had all grown, in a moment, and were wait-

ing stopped in time for the day sun to come and give

them…

      Flowers which as in a dream at sunset I watered

faithfully not knowing how much I loved them.

      I am so lonely in my glory—except they too out

there—I looked up—those red bush blossoms beckon-

ing and peering in the window waiting in the blind love,

their leaves too have hope and are upturned top flat

to the sky to receive—all creation open to receive—the

flat earth itself.

      The music descends, as does the tall bending

stalk of the heavy blossom, because it has to, to stay

alive, to continue to the last drop of joy.

      The world knows the love that's in its breast as

in the flower, the suffering lonely world.

      The Father is merciful.

      The light socket is crudely attached to the ceil-

ing, after the house was built, to receive a plug which

sticks in it alright, and serves my phonograph now…

      The closet door is open for me, where I left it,

since I left it open, it has graciously stayed open.

      The kitchen has no door, the hole there will

admit me should I wish to enter the kitchen.

      I remember when I first got laid, H.P. gra-

ciously took my cherry, I sat on the docks of Prov-

incetown, age 23, joyful, elevated in hope with the

Father, the door to the womb was open to admit me

if I wished to enter.

      There are unused electricity plugs all over my

house if I ever needed them.

      The kitchen window is open, to admit air…

      The telephone—sad to relate—sits on the

floor—I haven't had the money to get it connected—

      I want people to bow when they see me and say

he is gifted with poetry, he has seen the presence of

the Creator

      And the Creator gave me a shot of his presence

to gratify my wish, so as not to cheat me of my yearning

for him.