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than the rest of us.”

I haven’t seen either of them

since.

The Genius of the Crowd

There is enough treachery, hatred,

violence,

Absurdity in the average human

being

To supply any given army on any given day.

AND The Best At Murder Are Those

Who Preach Against It.

AND The Best At Hate Are Those

Who Preach LOVE

AND THE BEST AT WAR

—FINALLY—ARE THOSE WHO PREACH

PEACE

Those Who Preach GOD

NEED God

Those Who Preach PEACE

Do Not Have Peace.

THOSE WHO PREACH LOVE

DO NOT HAVE LOVE

BEWARE THE PREACHERS Beware The Knowers.

Beware

Those Who

Are ALWAYS

READING

BOOKS

Beware Those Who Either Detest

Poverty Or Are Proud Of It

BEWARE Those Quick To Praise

For They Need PRAISE In Return

BEWARE Those Quick To Censure:

They Are Afraid Of What They Do

Not Know

Beware Those Who Seek Constant

Crowds; They Are Nothing

Alone

Beware

The Average Man

The Average Woman

BEWARE Their Love

Their Love Is Average, Seeks

Average

But There Is Genius In Their Hatred There Is Enough Genius In Their Hatred To Kill You, To Kill

Anybody.

Not Wanting Solitude

Not Understanding Solitude

They Will Attempt To Destroy Anything

That Differs

From Their Own

Not Being Able

To Create Art

They Will Not

Understand Art

They Will Consider Their Failure

As Creators

Only As A Failure

Of The World

Not Being Able To Love Fully

They Will BELIEVE Your Love

Incomplete

AND THEN THEY WILL HATE

YOU

And Their Hatred Will Be Perfect

Like A Shining Diamond

Like A Knife

Like A Mountain

LIKE A TIGER

LIKE Hemlock

Their Finest

ART

German bar

I had lost the last race big

somebody had stolen my coat

I could feel the flu coming on

and my tires were

low. I went in to get a

beer at the German bar

but the waitress was having a fit

her heart strangled by disappointment

grief and loss.

women get troubled all at once,

you know. I left a tip

and got out.

nobody wins.

ask Caesar.

the snow of Italy

over my radio now

comes the sound of a truly mad organ,

I can see some monk

drunk in a cellar

mind gone or found,

talking to God in a different way;

I see candles and this man has a red beard

as God has a red beard;

it is snowing, it is Italy, it is cold

and the bread is hard

and there is no butter,

only wine

wine in purple bottles

with giraffe necks,

and now the organ rises, again,

he violates it,

he plays it like a madman,

there is blood and spit in his beard,

he wants to laugh but there isn’t time,

the sun is going out,

then his fingers slow,

now there is exhaustion and the dream,

yes, even holiness,

man going to man,

to the mountain, the elephant, the star,

and a candle falls

but continues to burn upon its side,

a wax puddle shining in the eyes

of my red monk,

there is moss on the walls

and the stain of thought and failure and

waiting,

then again the music comes like hungry tigers,

and he laughs,

it is a child’s laugh, an idiot’s laugh,

laughing at nothing,

the only laugh that understands,

he holds the keys down

like stopping everything

and the room blooms with madness,

and then he stops, stops,

and sits, the candles burning,

one up, one down,

the snow of Italy is all that’s left,

it is over: the essence and the pattern.

I watch as

he pinches out the candles with his fingers,

wincing near the outer edge of each eye

and the room is dark

as everything has always been.

for Jane: with all the love I had, which was not enough:

which was not enough:

I pick up the skirt,

I pick up the sparkling beads

in black,

this thing that moved once

around flesh,

and I call God a liar,

I say anything that moved

like that

or knew

my name

could never die

in the common verity of dying,

and I pick

up her lovely

dress,

all her loveliness gone,

and I speak

to all the gods,

Jewish gods, Christ-gods,

chips of blinking things,

idols, pills, bread,

fathoms, risks,

knowledgeable surrender,

rats in the gravy of 2 gone quite mad

without a chance,

hummingbird knowledge,