I come into the room         The room stands waiting
river       books       flowers       you are far away
black river       a language just forgotten
traveling blaze of light           dreams of endurance
racing into this moment           outstretched faces
and you are far away
The stars cross over
fire-flood        extremes of singing
filth and corrupted promises             my river
A white triangle of need
my reflected face
laced with a black triangle                  of need

Naked among the silent of my own time
and Zig Zag Zag that last letter
of a secret or forgotten alphabet
shaped like our own last letter but it means
Something in our experience you do not know
When will it open open opening
River-watching all night
will the river
swing open we are Asia and New York
Bombs, roaches, mutilation       River-watching

Looking out at the river
the city-flow seen as river
the flow seen as a flow of possibility
and I too to that sea.

Summer repetitive. The machine screaming
Beating outside, on the corrupted
Waterfront.
On my good days it appears digging
And building,
On others, its monstrous word
Says on one note Gone, killed, laid waste.

The whole thing—waterfront, war, city,
sons, daughters, me—
Must be re-imagined.
Sun on the orange-red roof.
 

(Written on the plane:)

The conviction that what is meant by the unconscious is the same
as what is meant by history. The collective unconscious is the living
history brought to the present in consciousness, waking or sleeping.
The personal “unconscious” is the personal history. This is an
identity.
We will now explore further ways of reaching our lives, the new
world. My own life, yours; this earth, this moon, this system, the
“space” we share, which is consciousness.

Turbulence of air now. A pause of nine minutes.

(Written on the plane. After turbulence:)

The movement of life     :   to live more fully in the present. This
movement includes the work of bringing this history to “light” and
understanding. The “unconscious” of the race, and its traces in art
and in social structure and “inventions” — these are our inheritance.
In facing history, we look at each other, and in facing our entire
personal life, we look at each other.

I want to break open. On the plane, a white cloud seen through
rainbow. The rainbow is, optically, on the glass of the window.
 

A dream remembered only in other dreams.
The voice saying:
All you dreaded as a child
Came to pass in storms of light;
All you dreaded as a girl
Falls and falls in avalanche—
Dread and the dream of love will make
All that time and men may build,
All that women dance and make.
They become you.       Your own face
Dances through the night and day,
Leading your body into this
Body-led dance, its mysteries.
Answer me.      Dance my dance.

(BURNING THE DREAMS)
on a spring morning of young wood, green wood
it will not burn, but the dreams burn.
My hands have ashes on them.
They fear it
and so they destroy the nearest things.

(DEATH AND THE DANCER)

Running from death
throwing his teeth at the ghost
dipping into his belly, staving off death with a throw
tearing his brains out, throwing them at Death
death-baby is being born
scythe clock and banner come
trumpet of bone           and drum made of something—
the callous-handed goddess
her kiss is resurrection

something about desire
something about murder
something about my death
something about madness
 
something about light
something of breaking open
sing me to sleep and morning
my dreams are all a waking

In the night
wandering room to room of this world
I move by touch
and then something says
let the city pour
the sleep of the beloved
Let the night pour down
all its meanings
Let the images pour
the light is dreaming

Then came I entire to this moment
process and light
to discover the country of our waking
breaking open