ULTIMATE LEAVES poems by Steve Kirchhoff Bozeman, Montana, USA     THE HAPPY WISDOM Just this - just this freedom Of things in their being, Which is not them But their grace. The sound of water is not liquid But happiness happening, because, because... The wind is not force, but Happiness moving, the branches Hipping and bucking, swept by Happiness, leaves mounting, the Rusty piles of needles and dirt Compounding, massing, making Forms and consequences of joy Irremediable. Do not, but just this, The sound of water skimming Over things, a tuning of The vital instrument, unmade Except in being, in just this tingling. Neither provenance nor coming Nor going, just movement that Is not, either, but That it is felt, is close, Is here and not, a flash, A stone, a sense of clouds.     NIGHT WATCHMAN A tower rises from the black Like an eternal reference For a world eternally dark. Below, in an illusion of disorder, Rose blossoms tangle Like whispery voices of night. He is sitting not far off In a chair, with the only walls Those he creates from air. The air is really his feelings Made external; the tower Is a god in deathly aspect. Do not ask about the ground. Enough that he should sit Upon it, in a chair. The only walls are those which he creates from air.     FALLING LINES Everyone dead in a living frame; Everyone a poem of yellow leaves. The humming of the whole, the report from Largeness behind the yellow scene. Not living, yet informing, nor loving Nor dying, but in all parts moving just the same. No poem in the yellow tree, Yet a color that is like belief.     JEB FACES THE APOCALYPSE I had a problem with America But it got solved. Used to be When I wanted her, she'd run To filth, a miracle for my frustration. But now I get it. She's too great For puny folks to 'preciate. That's why we've went to the dogs - Cuz nobody can make us heel, And a dog's no good unless it knows its place. I say a man's not so great As his desires and spending make him seem, And he slits the throat of his own dream From spite about God-knows-what. Cuz there's too much wonder I believe. We pile up crap, Say profanity with God - Cuz too much wonder. A mountain of arsenic And septic ground - who needs it ? Nuthin tastes like food. Ain't no river don't smell Like turpentine. - Cuz ain't nobody bigger sayin' That it's wrong. Nobody bigger's To blame; no-one to look in The eye and say The problem's In your machine - it don't work. America's a wonder, and man Wants wonder for free. I know that's Syrup-talk - but you tell me better! Wonder pulls the evil from our sleeve. Someday we won't be able to live - Not after what we're bound to do. Ruin makes ruin, and death gets death. You'll prob'ly say the recknin's just The wreck in us, come out all the way. Some credit evil to scheming people - But I tell you: America's a wonder Not a dog. I know you ain't amused. Wonder is just hearts gussed up is what Your eyes say - or I'm confused. Hell with it! I'm too old...the young folks Is gonna have to face up, when time Comes. I've had a part, I don't deny it, But at least I come round to bein' Humble. It took a whole life, but It was worth it. God bless what's comin'.     RECIPE FOR RECONSTITUTED SUNLIGHT Take, of faithful dog - an ear; Of crow - indifference Capture rattle of wind And bluntness of boot Combine gushing heart and Dry-leaf obsession Cover in a vase; Put to flame. Cry. Distill bile of cow And melody of window dust Divide by holy ghost And stations of the cross Mix and discard all. OR, MORE TRADITIONALLY: Beg the holy sublime world energy emanating From placeless transcendence for temporary deferment of inner darkness POSTMODERN OPTION #1: Consider silence dwelling between grief spasms, the functional Center within this dysfunctional passionate, mutable, etc. etc. … world Do not throw up. POSTMODERN OPTION #2: Throw up but say you didn't.     TO FIND THE CENTER OF AN ONION Walk far out, into yourself; The horizon is flat and quiet. Behind you, your house is burning. Your children have all died. Walk onto the universe, formed Out of silver, oblivion's breath. You rehearsed this moment, your sad excellence, You know you did This art you can't get around, This place where finesse ends, in a heap Of burned candles, a personal sun Wasted from its fire. Walk far out, into your silver God; God understands, God controls your way, He hears your step on stage Before you hear it His entrance, which is into yourself. Walk far out there. The air is silver, Your breath is a soundless cloud Inside three walls. You are alone there, Alone with God. Measureless, fearless, and still.     ULTIMATE LEAVES Among the percepts of reality Is that every reality can see. First rule of realistic seeing: To see a leaf is not to see a leaf. Corollary: When a leaf appears Real seeing ends. And the wind blows always And yet - always - the wind. Leaves like saffron-colored daggers Slash the pavement. Leaves creep like scorpions And sting the eyes that they descry. A hail of spirit, A waft of unfathomable atoms - these are leaves. Do not seek the leaves - They have found you out already.     DISSOLUTION The sun stoops, sits and bares its wits; Tall trees convert dark light, dark light. Things dissolve, though the mass increase: Toward difference things move, don't cease. Singleness, sole sovereign of night, Stoops, sits, considers - then forgets.