John Aiello
"John Aiello's poems are modest, beautiful and deep; they have a complexity of consciousness -- and it is stark and graceful. It's a case of honesty and spontaneity being one and the same."
Michael McClure
Oakland, California
July, 2000
McClure's Porch
A complete story in lines. No I'm not dreaming. This happened. Actually, it all happened. In the dark dripping down my tongue. A long long time ago."
I.
I came
To San Francisco
(18)
Years ago
This summer
(short)
pilgrimage to
the knife edge
Of the water
(first)
Book of poems
Under the arm
(I)
Was going
To hand deliver
Invisible bowls
Of Blake's blood
To Michael McClure
(spread)
The collective musk
Of poets
Across the ocean
(blowing)
The sacred bells
Of infinity
(wrapped)
In the
Ancient chains
Of God
(I)
Came upon
McClure's porch
In the mystic
Half darkness
Of afternoon
(foggy)
White rails
Of rain
Down the pavement
(the sky)
Had become
An actual
Train depot
(I)
Was riding
(264) Downey Street
(I'd)
Read so much
About you
(Staring)
At a wooden
Blue door
(just)
Some small
Town boy
From the farm
Field mountains
(I)
Was looking
For a taste
Of approval
(half)
Strangled with shyness
(staring)
At the door
(I)
Finally knocked;
A young woman
Named Jane answered
(terrific)
Blue diamonds
For eyes
(almost)
An angel
(more)
Than human
(delicate)
As a memory
In half
Written form
(I)
Handed her
My poems
(and)
She smiled
(rocking)
A new
Born child
To sleep
Against the
Gold towers
Of her face
("I'll)
Tell him
You were here"
(and)
I was gone
That fast
(fading)
Old voices
In the wind
(was)
I even there
(on)
McClure's porch
(in)
The rusty cool
Winter wind
(turning)
Back to summer?
And am
I even
Here now
(dreaming)
A moment
(so)
Many years past
(in)
The future:II.
So many
Years later
I climbed
McClure's porch again
(escorted)
By the
Poet himself
(and)
He showed me
His book shelves
(Pound)
And Rexroth
On the walls
In the
Dusty lamp-light
Of morning
(crossing)
The border
(old)
Sacred river
of dawn
(breathless)
Into bone
(walking)
Across the cliffs
(breathless)
Into bone
(down)
the mirrors
Of the mind
(I)
Began floating
Through the windows
(ancient)
New spirit realm
Beyond time
(suddenly)
So secure
In my
own shoes
(I)
Stopped asking
Him questions:III.
Here on
McClure's porch
(so)
Many years ago
(marauding)
The holy house
Of the poet
("I'll)
Tell him
You were here""I hope
He understands
Why I came--uninvited""He will. Don't worry.
He will..."
September 12, 2000
1 a.m.Deer in the Storm
-For Gary Snyder
I am
A deer
Running through
The deep
Snow drifts
At dawn
(graceful)
And speedy
Brave arrow
With new
Gold hooves
(graceful)
And speedy
(it's)
All about 'eyes'
(balance)
And beauty
(the)
Prowess of
The heart
(this)
The ability
To stay pure
(frozen)
In time
(for)
Ever moving forward
(in)
All kinds
Of weather
January, 2001
The Lion Ghost
-For Michael McClure
And every kiss
Is a rose
(and)
The petals
Are this poem
(the melody)
Is imprinted
Down the width
Of every muscle
(down)
The muscular spine
Of the soul
(shedding)
The velvet thorns
Of your veil
(I)
See both eyes
Clearly now
(muscular)
And soft-boned
(glowing)
Down the sides
Of the sky
(stamped)
Around the knives
Of my mind
Like a ghost
February 4, 2001
2:45 a.m.(After first viewing--GRAHHR)
To Dad
I had
Another dream
About my
Dead father
Last night
(he)
Was sitting
In a room
Next to
The late
William S. Burroughs
(sipping)
From a cup
Of coffee
(teeth)
All stained
With thick brown
Grave moss--"I like
A smoke
In the morning
With my coffee,"
Burroughs said
(face)
Just like an old
Sack of bones
Dissolving back
Into the
Thirsty shapes
Of the sea
("only)
Trouble is
(tar)
Mixes with
Nicotine soot
(erodes)
The scars
(of)
Your esophagus
(down)
through the lungs"
Dad mused
("that's)
What killed me--"
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