What Matters Most is How Well You Walk Through the Fire Read Online Free PDF

flower of love
    cut at the stem
    passion has its own
    way
    and hatred too.
    the curtain blows open
    and the sky is black
    out there tonight.
    across the way
    a man and a woman
    standing up against a darkened
    wall,
    the red moon
    whirls,
    a mouse runs along
    the windowsill
    changing colors.
    I am alone in torn levis
    and a white sweat shirt.
    she’s with her man now
    in the shadow of that wall
    and as he enters her
    I draw upon my
    cigarette.

everywhere, everywhere
    amazing, how grimly we hold onto our
    misery,
    ever defensive, thwarted by
    the forces.
    amazing, the energy we burn
    fueling our anger.
    amazing, how one moment we can be
    snarling like a beast, then
    a few moments later,
    forgetting what or
    why.
    not hours of this or days or
    months or years of this
    but decades,
    lifetimes
    completely used up,
    given over
    to the pettiest
    rancor and
    hatred.
    finally
    there is nothing here for death to
    take
    away.

about a trip to Spain
    in New York in those days they had
    a system at the track
    where you bought a ticket
    and tried to pick 5 winners in a row
    and Harry took $1000
    and went up to the window and said,
    â€œ1, 8, 3, 7, 5.”
    and that’s the way they came in
    and so he took his wife to Spain
    with all that money
    and his wife fell for the mayor of this little
    village in Spain and fucked him
    and the marriage was over
    and Harry came back to Brooklyn broke
    and mutilated
    and he has been a little crazy ever
    since, but
    Harry, don’t despair
    for you are a genius
    for who else had enough pure faith
    and enough courage
    to go up to the window
    and against all the gods of logic
    say to the man at the window:
    â€œ1, 8, 3, 7, 5”?
    you did it.
    yes, she got the mayor
    but you’re the real winner
    forever.

Van Gogh
    vain vanilla ladies strutting
    while Van Gogh did it to
    himself.
    girls pulling on silk
    hose
    while Van Gogh did it to
    himself
    in the field
    unkissed, and
    worse.
    I pass him on the street:
    â€œhow’s it going, Van?”
    â€œI dunno, man,” he says
    and walks on.
    there is a blast of color:
    one more creature
    dizzy with love.
    he said,
    then,
    I want to leave.
    and they look at his paintings
    and love him
    now.
    for that kind of love
    he did the right
    thing
    as for the other kind of love
    it never arrived.

Vallejo
    it is hard to find a man
    whose poems do not
    finally disappoint you.
    Vallejo has never disappointed
    me in that way.
    some say he finally starved to
    death.
    however
    his poems about the terror of being
    alone
    are somehow gentle and
    do not
    scream.
    we are all tired of most
    art.
    Vallejo writes as a man
    and not as an
    artist.
    he is beyond
    our understanding.
    I like to think of Vallejo still
    alive
    and walking across a
    room, I find
    the sound of Cesar Vallejo’s
    steadfast tread
    imponderable.

when the violets roar at the sun
    they’ve got us in the cage
    ruined of grace and senses
    and the heart roars like a lion
    at what they’ve done to us.

the professionals
    constipated writers
    squatting over their machines
    on hot nights
    while their wives talk on the
    telephone.
    while the TV plays
    in the background
    they squat over their machines
    they light cigarettes
    and hope for fame
    and
    beautiful young girls
    or at least
    something to write
    about.
    â€œyeah, Barney, he’s still at the typer.
    I can’t disturb him.
    he’s working on a series of short novels for
    Pinnacle magazine. his central character is some
    guy he calls ‘Bugblast.’ I got a sunburn
    today. I was reading a magazine in the yard
    and I forgot how long I was out there…”
    endless hot summer nights.
    the blades of the fan tap and rattle
    against the wire cage.
    the air doesn’t move.
    it’s hard to breathe.
    the people out there expect miracles
    continual miracles with
    words.
    the world is full of
    constipated writers.
    and eager readers who need plenty of new
    shit.
    it’s depressing.

the 8 count concerto
    the