by Jerome Rothenberg

Coda to A Book of Dreams for Robert Kelly

O God, I could be bounded in a nutshell and count myself
a king of infinite space, were it not that I have bad dreams.

No world more clear
than what we see
in dreams
nor more amazing,
numbers bursting into
stars & stars
enriching what we learn
when dreaming.

It is no more than this,
to sleep & be
master of the universe,
not to be bound to earth
but gathering a trillion
other worlds,
to count myself
a little king
stepping aside for time.

Nothing is measured
that the mind can fathom
waking. In the way
her body beckons
when you turn to touch her
coming from a black hole
deep in space
& time. We learn to count
the deeper images
& those still deeper,
gods & angels
dancing on a pin. *  * a chip

Before the dream
turns bad
in which a pin* holds * a chip
all we know
& all we fear
I stretch out flat
to the Horizon.
I arch above you
like a lid.
I vanish & return.
My name is Death.

The word extermination
resonates nothing
escapes. The world
itself ends in a time
beyond all time
where time ends
leaving a residue behind
of mindless space
& still more mindless
images the nightmares
that the mind conceals. * * reveals

To run from time
isn’t a choice,
the stars we see
are overwhelming
& block the view
or bring up images
of light & dark,
a flickering
across the map
of time,
the flow of sand
in dreams.

24.ix.17

by George Looney

Goldfinches dabble near–comic yellows
around the eaves of what I think of
as my house. Despite everything, there’s beauty
in this world, my friend said. Nobody
can erase something as insistent as this
color collaborating with the sky as though
it were a music always surrounding
whatever pain might be trying to claim
it’s everything. The goldfinches deny
any world defined by nothing but loss.

by Gino Sky

The gluten–free cookies are made,
the LED lights are up,
the tree is still in the forest,

the rum is hot–buttered —
made the old fashioned way.

Jesus and his Mom have R.S.V.P.’d.

Coyote and the Roadrunner send their regrets,
as they’ll be entertaining the troops.

Moses has invited the Dali Lama to spend
Hanukkah with him in the Holy Land,
hoping something will rub off.

Buddha will bring escargot.

The Great Mother says she’ll play Santa Claus,
since she’s been performing that role from the
beginning.

The Big Bang hasn’t responded, but there’s still
time.

by Gino Sky

(GUBERIF: firebug spelled backwards.
Painted on Idaho roads during the 40’s & 50’s.)

for my daughters — Nichole & Maggie

“Don’t be a guberif!” I would tell
at my daughters — a reminder
to let them know
that I was close
to losing it.

“What does that mean?”
friends would ask.

“Oh, that’s Idaho Yiddish.”
I would reply with authority.

“Loosely translated,
It means little devil firebug.”

Accepted without question,
I would continue . . .

“I’m surprised you haven’t
heard it before. It’s way beyond
Mashuganah. Actually, it’s
beyond translation.”

I was never challenged,
which undoubtedly gave
me the freedom to continue on
to bigger and better stories.

I’m amazed my daughters have turned
out as normal as they have
considering
the burden of imagination
they had to grow up with.

At times, I even believed
that I had gone
too far. That there was no reality
in their lives. Only make–believe
covered over with fantasy,
and they would end up like their father.

“Tell the truth!” I begged.

“Why,” they responded, “you never do.”

“That’s different, I’m a writer.”

“Is that why we never have any money?”

It was a tough lesson
and I tried hard to turn myself around.

Aesop’s fable was right.
There was no happy ending
for the happy–go–lucky grasshopper.

But then, exoneration day arrived,
when I overheard my oldest daughter
yell at the five year old boy
she was kid sitting.

“Nathan . . . don’t be a guberif!”

“What does that mean . . . ?” her boyfriend asked,
at the picnic
we were having
at the Portland Rose Garden.

“Oh, I’m surprised that you haven’t
heard of it before . . . ,” she replied with
unabashed authority. “It means asshole in Yiddish.”