Michael McClure: thanksgiving valentines

1.
A ROSE NEEDS NO REASON
f
o
r
being.

2.
A SPIRITUAL OCCASION
needs no
reason
f
o
r
being
A ROSE.
Petals and pollen
on the ground
in
the stars.

3.
ALL ARE BLOOMING
A
T
O
N
C
E
!
The light of stars,
the worm twisting
through the tuna’s
red muscle,
and
a new creek
in the clouds.

4.
IN FORTY BILLION KALPAS,
or
no
time,
we
are gone.
No thought.
No memory.
No haven.
--As lovely
as the fall
of your
hair
on your shoulder.

5.
WE START SELVES.
--Nothing
stops us
--nothing
starts
us.
Just eyes flashing,
and loves
--it’s
an occasion.

6.
PROUD THAT I WILL NOT
L
A
S
T
I am here only
to be,
if
I saw through the blast
I would be gone
in a grin
of
ecstasy
like
a
violet,
an aphid
or a ridge of stars
on the branch
of
the
tree.

7.
(baby picture)
GIVE ME MY GRIN
and my cap gun
and
my
HUGE
HAT
and wet
pointed boots.
The horses neigh
when I step
in the waves
at the bank
of the river.
There’s a moon
inside
of the moon.
The stars have gone home
to play.

8.
I AM BLOSSOMING
with painted eyebrows and long white hair.
With baby pictures and photos
of youth and manhood.
Manhood ablaze with arrogance,
love, power in shoulders
AND LEGS.
The truth and it’s dues
are
my
occasion
to blossom in laughter
and hot wet tears
and howls and pleadings
and requests for mercy
begging and touch
and
a
l
l
this moment
is a power
AND PERFUME
blowing around
my leaves
and my ears.

9.
HERE. I PEER FROM MY OCCASION
ONCE. ONE TIME
O
N
L
Y
--like all else!
A blueberry, a child,
a world, a tyger. All gone
the thought of cake
after the party is over.
N
O
T
T
O
B
E
remembered.
Nothing.
AS REAL CAN BE,
and
always
is,
behind those huge billowing
light-blazing clouds
of
late
sunset.

10.
I CANNOT BE HURT
I am the living laughter
of the dying tear
in Grandpa’s eye.
E
V
E
R
E
Y
T
H
I
N
G
is gone.
--There stands the fear
of the moment’s swirl
with the flesh
that we are and we hurl.
No treasure
before
and none left after.
The planks
of the instant
burst
into
matter
and
light,
and nada
and
colors of a fledgling
hummingbird’s chest.
It is too late for play,
too early to rest
while thorns and anthers glow
in the spiritual occasion.

11.
I DO NOT HUG PHANTOMS
TO MY CHEST
or cosy their sweet ribs
with the hands of my moment.
All before now
was a ghost
and everything after
is the flame
of a scent on fire
when its instant
is over.
R
I
G
H
T
NOW
we are blossoming
side-by-side
and your smile
is sunshine on white
and pink clover
and your laugh is lovely
as the fur
of a tortoise shell cat
and the sandy dash
of a young plover.

12.
IN ALL IMAGINING WORLDS
and atoms
this flowering
is born and gone
and
not
to be
remembered or forgotten.
No light,
no scent
but solid substance
where dragons
fly
in a tiny penthouse
of nirvana.
You. Me. Mosquito bites.
Nebulae. Smoke.
Reflections of nothing
in unflawed mirrors.
A dot
of yellow pollen
on a wooden table top.

13.
QUICKSILVER SLIDING ON NOTHING
is the hues and tastes of being.
Hearing, smelling, seeing
are made of this
--and
what
a timeless
JOY
--your fingers
in the morning,
your knees against
the muscles
of my back.