A Gnostic, Occult, and Imaginative Approach to Astrology


Notes From The Green Header

Allan King

These notes were written aboard
the wood-hull boat, Padre Island,
out of Brownsville, Texas.

They were a daily correspondence
with Ben Watson, the captain. And
the last note is from him.


because the heavens hang
full of fiddles; guttenberg
turns to iron in the black
forest, his
broken book smiles
shut; but
the youthís magic horn
blows green thru the holes; rust
peels off windows where the scarecrow sits
telling snowmen all about life under the ocean
floor. And that is not unrelated
to the beginning of your bones in the middle
of ponds: enamelled pavillions
sent to support whatever rots
when the eye blinks; and it blinks
all the time. I, for example, find myself
going to sea on a boat with your tongue
grafted to my ear. father
island. So I tell you
that you never forget are only what you want
to hear: eclipse of
coming thru the walls. All
we have to do is watchout for the fatboy guard
with his book of rules, and his gun. There is
a dark place
where trees grow downward; flowers
blossom out of it; water
drinks itself.


upon a time,
there was a green header:
he was so green he didnít even know
what a green header is: he thought
brussell sprouts might have something to do with it.

the green header knew the orange sailor,
a crazy lady who ate spiders, wrote poems,
and lived in the far North.

Long ago,
the orange sailor and the green header met
the flying dutchman, and together
they all drove around in a station wagon
that they called a houseboat.

they didnít know who they were. Except
they knew
the flying dutchman was a sailor
because he drove the car,
and he called her the orange sailor
because she wore orange bell-bottoms
whenever she drove the car.
And the two of them knew the other one
never drove the car
because he could never stop thinking.
He thought and thought, but
they didnít know he was the green header,
and he didnít know either.

All they ever did was drive around and talk,
and write poems, and drink beer.
And they were terrible poems.

Then one day the flying dutchman got caught
in a casket, the orange sailor
said she didnít understand, and the green
header analyzed it all to pieces.

So they went away from each other,
and locked everything up,
and thatís why, -even today
the green header is always looking for keys.


(the emperor)

Some people say my beard is beautiful,
but itís just
i will send you out
on a boat, -with two clocks, and all
the cigarettes you can smoke. remember
my blue eyes
and be careful of the watchman, he shoots
thru the back of the head. listen
to the radio, at nine oíclock
theyíll play mozart. masturbate
if you can. and donít run down
the battery. this is
your initiation. in the morning
i will come again and show you how
the fishnets work. with chains. some
people say my beard is



morning cigarettes
mount the chariot and move over the sea
collecting garbage,
and the new daylight. the worms
in your belly
fight bleached water descending sheets of glass
frosted by the code of magic learned
in dreams of the night before aleph or
anybody else even reached the cliff
-itsí bottom rolled open over venetian blinds,
picture tubes,
and the great magenta toothbrush, -phallic
by the wayside. it whispers
bird trills
interlaced with
hopscotch-neon-nowhere designed
and edited
by the stars who find themselves
currently unemployed,
but the rat
never sleeps; his
fine teeth foam
in the shadow,
( and pythagoras
hates me; he strings
electric beads down
neurons over cables to
the toes, and:
he hollers,
Ď howís your cerebellum ?í )


( dated; 1/27/71)

Still docked, but going out; notes are
nervous. ice
slides onto the boat in
rectangles. the radio is
out, the fog is coming
in. slip-knots
fill the water and float
over it. the captain
has black hair on his belly; the rigman
wears a white rag around
his head. the other water
tanks leak; and the nets
in the air. there is an absence of

something. beans
cook on the stove. iím
alone with a match-head and
a hammer in the wheel house. theyíll
probably never discover
the real arrow on the window; itís pretending
to be black tape. everybodyís
full of holes
and thinking. the engine
to talk: itís dreaming
of forests where snow isnít sprayed
into every corner, and all
the rooms arenít made
of concrete. ( it

needs an oil job
bad. )


( dated; 1/28/71 )

Up and down on the ocean float
gelatinous bubbles of misconception that
tell us what the cables have always said: that
the tension is unbearable, that
the rust is eating in. under the boat
their purple tentacles sway
thru mixtures of tree roots, and
zip top cans that
anchor us to each otherís rhythm. how long since
we have touched ? the fish
donít know; the wind canít
say. yesterday
orange clouds carried the back deck straight
against the sun, and smashed it
there. i could hear
falling out all over the place and
tried to hide in the wheel house but the gears
ejected me. then
i saw what i know you wonít believe: -a coffin
carried over the swells by shrimp
in tophats and coattails
marching arm in arm with
penguins. the blisters on my hands
burst. what
rain of cinderellas ascending chandeliers ? what
grease choked angels in hard hats ? what
umbrellas do i need to hide from ? right now,
spiders are eating ice cubes in the jungle
and not one shark in sight. Letís
piss on all the stars and their urgent
light; letís tie the ends of our
hair together and
fall down.


( undated )

youíll take control in this
just to stop the sprocket click
that makes the sky an oscilloscope
and radar of the porpoises who follow you. you
canít really dream on the ocean
when itsí belly is
an island
and your wooden
father. you
can feed numbers thru the compass tightly
in itsí square over the engine, but
never expect a return: whistling
is bad luck. the crazy man
who comes out of the spaces in the net
has inverted a red thermos cup and
called it the starboard light. except
everybody knows the real one is
and provides the square for the floating circle
to rest in. bilge
is probably what they call it, here
where the small fish rot
on the deck. bilge,
and nowhere to pump it. bilge,
and under the water architecture of embryos in
structural steel: blueprints
where feet never walked. imagine
four wooden doors
on top of the ocean. then
imagine no keys. to go under,
tie a slip-knot below your neck, and
silently sneeze. Ignore
all porpoises.
( thereís a cryptogram
on the green door of the wheelhouse. )
it looks like this:

 ~~~Green Flash~~~


the cryptogram appears as strings strung
over four nails. the captain
keeps his maps in it. the nails
are on the four corners; the other
are held together by knots. knots
are a secret language, according
to the captain. but the rigman,
who just woke up and is eating
stew, calls it a spiderweb. (only he
has sleep in his eyes ? )


( dated; 1/29/71 )

lead lines
drag the ocean floor leading
nowhere. or
else to the chain that
goes down the forepeak. voices come thru
stuck inside volume controls that trip
up anything alive and knock it
into the nets. this is
the sixth day of target practice. we ignore
not only porpoises, but even the crazy scarecrows
wearing christmas tree lights and
swinging thru the rigging. we
shit over the side, and take communion
on the bow. the captain
has stolen my rubber
boots; he wears them
when we eat the beans. thereís too much
pepper, but otherwise
nobody sees the emperor,
the forest, or
the need for so many nets
to become poems. for instance:
each night on the back deck
we twist off the heads of hundreds of
shrimps, without even a drop
of blood. or a word
from any mirror.


( dated; 1/30/71 )

the barometer is falling (from too much
cornstarch in the gravy) and the wind
has just shifted. later
tonight, starfish
will watch us murder shrimp
wearing our latex gloves. six

is the number of gemini, and there are five
fingers on each hand. oil
pressure is up
to forty pounds. and Iím
involved with numbers again; -tearing
pages off calendars, wondering
how many hairs are
in your beard. O,
emperor, now
that you are unreal
i understand you are just
another header too, on
another boat, -are you
smoking, or is there
a window
under your lip ? sometimes

the rigman
doubles as
the cook.


First Technical Note

the wench is not a woman
at all; -the wench is
an equal but different
composed of the drums and the nigger heads. the drums
roll up the cables that
carry the doors that
open over the ocean. the nigger heads
are related to
the shrimp heads, but
only by murder, -that is by
aural derivation. or
death. the moon
is waxing full. tides
refer to the vertical movement of
the water; tides
go up and down, they donít
come in. the current
comes in. and the tides
-stand! Only

cheap dictionaries
define poems as rhythmical
compositions. A note

is a latin mark, and latin is
a dead language.


( dated;1/31/71 )

marking time. making
time: tun, ka
of rolling water
measures time ( it would
seem ) in weaves quite different
than we ( it would
seem ); waves of earthís womb
cause time ( it would
seem ) to emerge as tunes
to the moon ( it would
seem )

tun, ka
bak tun. ( it would
seem ) beats of time
beating time into gulfs ( it
would seem). O moon of hunab ku
you call to me (it would
seem). marking time. making
time, timeless
time (it would
seem). tun, ka
tun. bak
tun. (it would
seem ). O earth
your rime
tunes my heart (it would
seem ) to a song of feeling

I wish I could sing.


( dated; 1/32/71 )

unlike shrimp boats, mushrooms
feed off light in the damp air: their
perfect consciousness needs nothing
that canít be found in the dirt. but words hook
thought forms to the bark of trees, makes them
parasites. what if
the deck is merely playing cards, and not
a boat at all ? then who
would be safer ? -the rudder
that lifts out of the high waves, or
the salt that collects in her hair ? a storm is brewing

along with the coffee in the galley. the crescent wrench
has thrown itself overboard. suicide
is where you go when your
hatís empty. a short
visit with
neptune, who -if you
find him
is a cripple. in a small
bookstore; selling
hairnets. does he smell like soap ? no, he

hooks onto the lazy line and hands you his
recipe: sautee three onions
with a cup of parsley over
a slow flame. smoke,
write loveletters, suck
lovecock in a birdcage, slay
a magic dragon, sip tea
with the Queen of the Night; snarl
at her. or try


( dated; 1/32/71 )

what i have to report here
is very important: you
must listen carefully, as

i did: -last night
the captain slept in a coca-cola cooler. after breakfast
we drew in the nets, broke
the windows ( because the emperor
still isnít here ) and hanged a man
made all out of water,
-upside down, from
the mast. in the wheelhouse,

the captain talked
with a goat, who
he said,
is a very intelligent person. he explained
that the goat is really a red
convertible; then he
stepped off the bow leading a procession
of little people across the desert which came up when the ocean
went down. somewhere in the middle a car
passed him containing jellyfish and an angel. the flying
dutchman got out and
asked: Ď What
is the Green Flash ? í but
the captain turned his back and
handed me a peanut cookie:

Ď Thereís no use in ciphers,í he said,
Ď so just wake up ! í


The Vision of the Green Header


Even though the green header never had a vision,
he got a letter from the emperor.
it said:
Ď I have gone away
again; platoís republic has been robbed of twenty dollars. but donít
worry; itís still there
as much as ever.
even though i really do want to see you,
even though i really do want to see,
even though i really do want to,
i donít want to be un/necessarilly obscure. í

The green header thought and thought
about the emperorís letter. and one day, he decided
it wasnít a letter at all; it was a
cross-word puzzle. so he counted
all the black squares, and tried to fill in the blanks.
But the key word was treacherous, and even though
treacherous looks like a word, it doesnít sound
like a word. it sounds
like a poem.

So the green header went to the flying dutchmanís casket, he picked up the
magic ibbur, and he called the orange sailor: Ď Orange
sailor,í he said, the emperor has posed me
a riddle, and i canít find
the key: ĎO,í
said the orange sailor, Ď tell me the riddle, maybe i can find
the key.í


So the green header explained that platoís republic
had been robbed of twenty dollars, but that
it was still there as much as ever. and the orange sailor laughed and
laughed: Ď Thatís no riddle, í she
said, Ď itís an
anagram. do you
still have that ibbur thing ? -you ought
to throw it away. i told you itís only glass ! í
then she disappeared.

But the green header remembered he was in the casket
that the orange sailor couldnít understand. then he saw
that the emperorís letter wasnít a crossword puzzle, or a riddle, or an
anagram. it was a cryptogram !
the same one that was on the captainís door. so he went there, and he
stared at the door. and he stared and stared.
and he thought and thought.
and the green door said trust me.
and the green header said treacherous.
and the green door said trust me.

And the voice of the emperor came out of the cryptogram.
and it said: Ď Green header,
you are in the room with one window and no doors. i am
that window. you canít see me, and i canít see you; but
you have my letter and it is a letter,
and there arenít any keys
because nothing has ever been
locked up. í

A million invisible hands immediately
applauded !


( dated; 2/1/71 )

the Ancient Mariner came
by, ( why not ?
everybody else
is here ! ) descending
on a skyhook to the bow. the goat
told the captain that cactuses move around at night. the rigman
began chasing his black dog all
around the deck. around, and

the Ancient Mariner declared a carnival; he
turned the boat into glass. Ď You see, í he said

Ď this entire thing is in your head.
these wings,
my cigar,
and your other four feet are phony too. my real
name is George Snow. í

-summoning red seagulls, he wrapped them
in his beard: Ď The rainbow is
actually square, í
said he,
and YOU must learn
how to breathe ! í
but I

agree with the rigman that
all the galley pots will rust.


( dated; 2/2/71 )

the wheel turns, the sea
swells, the boat
moves, and the orange sailor is in detroit
casting magic spells on cars; the moon girl
is in portland making love with a
cello, and the fish lady
is in school teaching orioles how
to die. ( i
donít have to remind you
that the emperor isnít here ) here
there is only the captain, -a hopeless
romantic, the rigman -a dog chasing
ragman, and the header
-a double for me. we
are all at odds ends. the windows are
dirty. someone
suggested having albatross for dinner,
but the fool
objected. he, of course,
isnít here either. he sent me a ruby,
a seashell, and a cracker. enclosed
in a bottle of silk: the note said:

Ď Find your walking stick; Scorpio is
a fake. The only mountains
worth climbing are the ones
that arenít there. í


( dated; 2/3/71; night,
1:25 a.m. )

something occult is going on. between
the moon and the wench. Slime
is all over the place. there is no
reason why I have to fill this page. what I want is
the emperorís hand on my belly, his mouth
on my thigh. And the flicker
of his eye. a magician
built this house, but only the emperor
sees thru it. ( and
maybe you ) do you
suppose the cipher could be
a trick ? I canít
get to sleep.

they have discovered
the arrow on the window
after all, and it really IS black
tape; i probably will never
discover them.

P.S. Ė i still canít sleep. and as for the purple shrimper, only he
thinks he is The Great Purple Shrimper he has
seen himself simultaneously hanging,
-in a halter over a frozen french doorway, and
walking his pet lobster on a chain. now
even his wheat fields crammed full of black
crows donít scare me. I have
a bottomless hat, and a little
sleep is enough.


( dated; 2/3/71; later,
2:20 a.m. )

Ď in and out of the jungleÖ.í
Ď up and down on the waterÖ.í

i still canít sleep.

Consider the Emperor: he no longer sits
alone on his cube
in the forest. he isnít
Finnish, doesnít
wear a crown. i
havenít conjured him up as
a trick.

Consider the Emperor: we make love
as much as we can.
his word is his letter
and as good as a window.

Consider the Emperor: he still wonít fuck me in the ass.

Consider the Emperor:
Consider it.


( dated; 2/3/71 )

twenty-one marathons of
running engines and dancing feet. this
afternoon we tore up, -that means
the nets got caught on
the bottom. in the tooth
that projects out of the mud, hard
and white as sin. saint
rushed out of the forepeak extinguishing
fire with the hot fish that stream
thru her hair. O,
the delicate lace of ice
that twists around her ankles. iím afraid

i catch all the people i love in the memory
bond: -that means
this afternoon we tore up. after that
the captain cut his black hair and
asked me what goat was i
talking about. iím tempted
to throw him overboard and eat this
boat. but
who would swallow
the ocean ?


( dated; 2/4/71 )

the centaur says
the beans are still on the stove. they come
and go in a sort of perpetual chili. i despair of
telling you how we pass around our
farts, finally feeding them to the ostrich
who takes them down to the
engine, -thatís how it
runs. itís the same
engine thatís under the forest where
the emperor used
to sit. Definition

engine, -a latin word
which uses energy to
develop mechanical power. ( besides,
the captain filters the oil thru
perfume-scented toilet
paper. )


( dated; 2/5/71 )

on this boat, iím called the header.
the header wears binoculars
deep set in his head; he hangs
the nets from the whip lines and shakes out
the fish. the nets have wings, but you need
binoculars to see them
fly. picking

up the pieces when we tear up, and we
tore up again. the header
rolling in slime, haunted by sea lice and
shrimp acid. everywhere the deck is
full of pieces: net pieces, pieces of sky, pieces of
water. the header picking up
the pieces, looking for a poem. trying to put the pieces
together again. and he canít; because the sea is a sheet of mercury,
because the engine never stops, because headers are low man on the totem pole, and the totem pole is the mast, and the mast
belongs to the boat that calls itself the father
island when, in fact, itís only
wood. ( last

night i dreamed of gates. all kinds of
gates. and all of them closing. and me
climbing over them. then i found a strawberry
snatch-block and
woke up. )

( for the orange sailor )

with the orange sun going down,
i think of the orange sailor
with her orange lips
and her orange eyes.

She taught me how to see in the dark.
she taught me how to eat yogurt
and drink black coffee.
she taught me when to hitch-hike,
where to find the flying dutchman
when heís gone or
wasnít even there.

she gave me the keys to go in and out, then
she gave me her sleeping bag and said
i have gone all the way to here,
the emerald sea, playing Oz, and trying to understand
numbers. especially, nothing. zero.
Orange sailor
with your skull cheeks, your witchcraft, and your bell,
i love you. send me
your fingers, your cards. look
outside now
at the orange sun going down.

Touch it !


( 2/6/71 )

cablegrams from Saturn,
planet of constriction. Mica
is a stone that glows like the moon. The moon
came out of the clouds last night and caught me
pissing off the starboard side. She has
threatened to sterilize me; that would be
terrible because the sun is too hot: it
burns itself up, -an engine
too low on oil.

The moon is the stone at
the foot of the bed; it dreams
it looks like a lump of fat. mica ( is

a Latin crumb, a mineral
that crystalizes in
thin, flexible
resistant to heat. )


( 2/6/71)

the sea is full of eyes; eyes
caught in the slime of squid, of
flat fish. eyes
that are as dull as
mirrors. and wonder. round
eyes that come up in our nets
and have no focus. but
the eyes of shrimp
out of their heads. they are
the color of mud. the eyes of the mud
are under the sea, turned
inward. someoneís
opaque dreams. the sea

is in love with the moon. the moon
is the eye of a fish in a candle. itís flame is
blue; it
licks. no astronaut

ever landed on the moon.
they travel in boats, and boats
donít have eyes. boats have
light bulbs and diesel engines. ( maybe
iíll light a candle and
mount it on top the mast until
it melts. ) bolts
go thru most of the boatís


( 2/6/71)

O, ibbur, sometimes
when the doors come in, they really
come in. they are covered with
mud. mud is
a kind of cipher. when
the doors go down they
spread open the wings of the net. all kinds of
things go swimming in, and some
never come back out. this is
cleaning shrimp, and catching
doors. i know
a room that has no doors, and one
window. it isnít

on this boat, but once
the flying dutchman drove
his taxi into a lampost. thru the rearview
mirror he could see itís round globe
hit the ground and bounce. he took it
home and saw it was
an orange inscribed
with a map of the world. he sat with it
every afternoon drinking
beer and smoking
cigars. he was in
the room
with one window and no doors.


the look of a heap of mica stuck
between thin shells: sea
lice, eyes. the flying
dutchman isnít dutch, and doesnít
fly. he has no sails, and
theyíre blood red. the flying dutchman turned off
a valve in a womanís cloathing shop on
castro street. dead.
plunk. tun, ka
tun. on his way
to a party. thousands of
spinning jennys sent him
a message: Ď What if
all the parts of an engine
thought for themselves and some
went backwards ? í
the flying dutchman cursed a very learned
hourglass; got caught
in itís changing
winds. a fun
house. i donít
understand that. he was
given a vision of the great
electric alarm clock. ticking. his
eyes blinked, and his heart
stopped. it began
to snow.
the luminous dial called out to him over
raging waters: Ď Ghostship,
you will never be a flying dutchman ! Go
perpetually around the ocean
collecting winds. they will whisper
in your ear. when you find Senta
sheíll be wearing orange
bell bottoms and eating yogurt: remember
the mica, the
hourglass, and
the clothing shop. Die.
flying dutcman, I will
take away your music, your
sails, and your land. You will have
as your sustenance, -circles
and eat them. In time
you will be a legend
in your own
sand ! í ( the flying dutchman

laughed, and
threatened to fuck the rigman
for saying such cute
things. ) I can tell you
about all this because
iím the header
and the boat is wood.


( 2/7/71 )

the mayans were seafearers; confronted by
nothing, they invented
the mollusc. karma
is a kind of conical-shaped
seagull. if you
run into it it
engulfs you. like the ocean
on the east coast of mexico, or the temple
of the diving god. in their jungle

cities, the mayans played blocks during the day
and looked for the odd stones that dance
in the night. the mayans were
doppelgangers. they found
the flying dutchman. he was
their own reflection on the fog, he was
floating in a zero. a ghostship. he was sewing numbers
onto sharkholes in the nets. he ripped out his
teeth, and gave them
names: tun,
ka tun,
ahau. the mayans

gave him soggy macaronies to eat. but
some macaronies are molluscs and he
refused to eat them. they turned him
into a dwarf, put him in a bag, and took him
to Uxmal where he
built his temple. the emperor

didnít have anything to do with it; he was contemplating
his cube. it
became a penknife, then opened
into a pyramid shaped like the number 11. Boredom
demands an explanation for all this
bullshit, but I canít
give one. Boredom
demands, but I
on the orange sailor,
the flying dutchman,
the moon girl,
the fish lady,
the emperor,
the captain, rigman, myself and
the green header. Together
with the YearBearers
we count the sacred pebbles of the poem.


( 2/7/71 )

after the fog the image
lingers; a dew drop
sparkles on the anchor, or
as the captain says, my sharp horizons
lost. today
we are anchored off shore for
the storm thatís blowing up, coming
in. hanging
on the hook
they call it; the hoof
the split foot in the water. the skyhook
came down to earth from the moon
because theyíre converting that
into an engine. Or maybe
a coughdrop. i donít care, -thereís
still far too much rust on the erector set. in fact,
the captainsí a capitalist and
the rigman doesnít have a black dog. he has
a bill for $600 worth of furniture. fishing
is all about money. thatís why
the sea is green. we rake over
the trash looking for lost tails. theyíre worth at least
a nickel a piece; the boat is
a silver dollar. and iím only here
because iím broke ( contrary
to what heraclitus or any other
hexagram says. but
the emerald sea ) isnít
a fiction. under itsí waves lives
a wizard, and his
sacred mumblings suck ships
down. more than
one mast, more than
one anchor, more than one
fatherís bones drag
over itsí ooze. making sounds no
arrangement of words can
stop. ( and heís
two payments
behind ! )


( 2/8/71 )

scarecrows; the moon is almost
full, but the numbers arenít
properly matched. the calendar
says tomorrow. green. full green, water green,
green words. watch out for
the black box: it
isnít musical, isnít
a cube, doesnít
have eight sides, catches
you. the green cataract is an eye
disease; itís incurable, the green
header has it, -looking
for keys, positions, poems. not

full but waiting. iím not like him, i
drink blood and wait for Spring when
the emperorís hand on a flower is
all the green i can bear. we embrace

it, and climb
endless engines stiched to beanstalks that force
me down onto this boat. outriggers,
outlines, outside
the sea is turning green from
the moon. she catches itsí
fish in a box, and
reads them.
Second Technical Note

I get three dollars a box for these
shrimp. a box is one
hundred pounds. trash
is anything caught in the nets
that isnít shrimp. each poem is
an empty box.


( 2/8/71 )

had an abortion; it was the ragmanís
dog. it
froze, black
in the snow. the temperature is
in the 30ís. wind blowing from the north over
the gulf no danger of falling in iím in
the engine room listening to the bilge swirl
back and forth under the floor boards. it has no
windows and only trapdoors they call
hatches. of course, theyíre arenít really any
floorboards on a boat. terminology. theyíre called
swastikas. weíre
on the hoof again, anchored down. land is
on the horizon. it isnít
sharp. whatís
the purpose of sitting in the dark with a mirror
sliding, -Ď Hey,
close the sea cock, í the
captain yells, Ď and
pump that bilge ! í


( 2/13/71 )

Ibbur, i
got it from a man who
got it from a man who
gave it to him
with a busted first letter. are your
teeth tight ? say the secret word
and get nothing about nothing, -absolutely
nothing. iím always asleep, a sleep
isnít the same as b sleep, or c sleep, or even
z sleep. a sleep is relative; another
egg broke one hour into
the new number 9. tap
the spinal column and find
two isosceles triangles intersecting
in air, producing air, and the prison of a star
where memory is a locked box with no
shrimp, and the storm is
over, and old goats, used
ice, unreal saints, schizophrenic
emperors, mayan ruins all float out
on the tide thatís really a current central to your nervous system. somewhere
in your head beyond your eyes you carry the flame of a new star
whose gland the day star is. mirrored
vision. the question is always what to do with
the negative. nothing. there is in
god, some say
a deep but dazzling hole
where rats chase some shapeless thing in rags. they look
down on this tiny boat thru swanís wings, and Cygnus
they always say, it doesnít really
( definition: Golem, -a hebrew word
indicating internal hemmorage. )


Omen: this morning
a dead seagull came up on
the tri-net cable. the captain says itís
an omen. three on men. three men
on a deck under an omen:
three-men-omen under a full moon,
full moon, very full moon counting zeros in
boatribs. moon men,
omen counting lumens; a
bagoffish hangs over their heads. they
pull the slipknot out, yes out
it comes. all the trip is over
in slime. O, three kids,
no men under
omens stand looking up
at the moon, at the moon bag omen,
bag o moontoys. itís a
pinata candy bag
busted open, broken
down falls the night full of warlocks afloat on the
emerald sea them all afloat in confetti pieces
of moon omens, -look at that ! how they
kill it bang
those moon men
got the engine
bang dead in itsí
boat bed out
run the nets out
the outriggers they run
back into it back to it the sea
it is all over. goddbye, goodie, the end of it
done over. so long captain goodbye
rig man goodbye flying
goodbye to dutchmoon man
going goodbye
no more senta, no more ugh
ugh all gone goodbye moongirl goodbye
no more orange sailor, goodbye
emperor. no boat, no ocean, no
poem, no. no,
nothing. gone
goodbye. over mayans, not
numbers, not
shrimp. no
cubes, or circles or
bilge. no. gone. done, not even one
header; youíre only green but once; green
goodbye. once gone, no
once. once

there was a green book
that carried a black stick, and walked all
around It couldnít give itself a way
and it never had a hat, so it
stepped off a cliff, and you
have it now. green
book gone too, O
the holes !

Note Found In A Bottle
( 2/18/71 )

the flying dutchman, having
noted the interior dimensions of
the casket, has recorded same
in a note which
when discovered in the bottle
will provide a key,
-if discoverers discover the bottle-
that will unlock the coffin.

I see it now,
the lid is already raising
( rising ? )
somethingÖoutside the coffin is
opening it. the flying dutchman
may soon be found alive and well in


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