Bob Kaufman et al

 

UNDER Construction

MORNING JOY

Piano buttons, stitched on morning lights.
Jazz wakes with the day,
As I awaken with jazz, love lit the night.
Eyes appear and disappear,
To lead me once more, to a green moon.
Streets paved with opal sadness,
Lead me counterclockwise, to pockets of joy,
And jazz. --Bob Kaufman

CAMUS: I WANT TO KNOW

Camus, I want to know, does the cold knife of wind plunge
noiselessly into the soul, finally

Camus, I want to know, does the seated death wing as sud-
den, swifter than leaden Fascist bullets ...

Camus, sand-faced rebel from Olympus, brain lit, shining
cleanly, on far historical peaks ...

Camus, I want to know, does the jagged fender resemble
Franco, standing spiked at Madrid's Goyaesque
wound

Camus, I want to know, the dull aesthetics, rubbery thump of
exploding wheels, the tick-pock of dust on steel

Camus, I want to know, does it clackety clack like that destiny
Train, shrieking to the Finland station

Camus, I want to know, does the sorrowful cry of unwilling
companions console the dying air ...

Camus, I want to know, does the cry of protested death sing
like binding vow of lovers' nod

Camus, I want to know, does the bitter taste of jagged glass
sweeten the ripped tongue, dried

Camus, I want to know, does the sour taste of
promise flee the dying mouth and eyes and lip

Camus, I want to know, does the liberated blood bubble
to the soil, microscopic Red Seas

Camus, I want to know, does the cyclop headlight illuminate
nerve-lined pits of final desires

Camus, I want to know, does the secret hoard of unanswered
queries scream for ultimate solutions

Camus, I want to know, does the eye of time blink in antic-
pation of recaptured seasons enriched

Camus, I want to know, does the sliver of quartz sensoulize
the clash of flesh on chrome and bone

Camus, I want to know, does the piercing spear of death
imitate denied desire, internal crucifixion

Camus, I want to know, does the spiritual juice flee as slowly,
as the Saharablood of prophets' sons

Camus, I want to know, does it mirror the Arab virgin, her
sex impaled on some soldier's wine bottle

Camus, I shall follow you over itching floors of black deserts,
across roofs of burning palms ... Camus, I shall crawl on sandpaper knees on oasis bottoms of
secret Bedouin wells, cursing ... Camus, I shall reach the hot sky, my brown mouth filled with
fragile telephones, sans rings... Camus, I shall mumble long-cherished gibberish through
layers of protesting heat demanding ... Camus, I shall scream but one awesome question, does death exist? Camus, I want to know. . .

 

 

 

     

 

 

 

 

 

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