Words for Love Ted Berrigan for Sandy Winter crisp and the brittleness of snow as like make me tired as not. I go my myriad ways blundering, bombastic, dragged by a self that can never be still, pushed by my surging blood, my reasoning mind. I am in love with poetry. Every way I turn this, my weakness, smites me. A glass of chocolate milk, head of lettuce, dark- ness of clouds at one o'clock obsess me. I weep for all of these or laugh. By day I sleep, an obscurantist, lost in dreams of lists, compiled by my self for reassurance. Jackson Pollock RenÈ Rilke Benedict Arnold I watch my psyche, smile, dream wet dreams, and sigh. At night, awake, high on poems, or pills or simple awe that loveliness exists, my lists flow differently. Of words bright red and black, and blue. Bosky. Oubliette. Dis- severed. And O, alas Time disturbs me. Always minute detail fills me up. It is 12:10 in New York. In Houston it is 2 pm. It is time to steal books. It’s time to go mad. It is the day of the apocalpyse the year of parrot fever! What am I saying? Only this. My poems do contain wilde beestes. I write for my Lady of the Lake. My god is immense, and lonely but uncowed. I trust my sanity, and I am proud. If I sometimes grow weary, and seem still, nevertheless my heart still loves, will break. -- p2: defenestrate --

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