WEBVTT

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I'm turning now to
the second book,

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The Violence of The Morning.

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I'll read, first
of all, because it

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is in the lighter mode
a portion of the poem

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called They Liked It,
Because The Wind Blew

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and Blew The Birds About.

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Partly, because it
refers to a desert scene.

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And it just seems appropriate.

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The title, They Liked It,
Because The Wind Blew and Blew

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The Birds About, is
from Gertrude Stein.

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She's a great source of titles,
if you haven't discovered

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that yet, and it's
actually in two sections,

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A and B. I'm going
to read B, but I'm

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going to include
by way of preface

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the last few lines of section A.

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We had climbed the stairs with
longer legs than the English

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on the stage set against
an Indian paintbrush sky.

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This American loneliness
tastes right bitter.

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Don't it?

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I'm going to have to kill
the sumbitch stole my horse.

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Ferdinand boat plank
to me, whistling

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with the breath of all
the sea birds who extends

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is pearl loosened company,
like a beetle finding

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its way into a brilliant
day in the prairies.

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I swear I was pushed
into this country

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by a few staggering sentences.

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These Burger Kings will
never gather the hymns

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of the mountains about them.

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Nor an idle Helen, sick
because the phantom, one, alone

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sings and moans
in Troy, take ship

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on Lake Powell's pink under
sky of matters every evening

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desire.

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Nor will these lion colored
clouds over Salt Lake

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ever taste a Mormon.

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A fly sized plane is
all the Om in Omaha,

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and Tom Eliot had it all to
give away, mountains rearing,

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like salmon in his
fishing basket.

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To walk down the center
line of a dead on Nevada

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highway, shaking one's
head from side to side,

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Jupiter glows over
the ice altar.

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A hobo spits on his palm.

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Love, fear, anger, the gods
cruise the silver dollar

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and jolly jacks.

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Come down the road
with me, friend,

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like a convoy of the crushed
conversations of beer cans.