Dahlgren I. Never knew he would come to this place- here, beside the once polluted pond, up in the harlem part of central park. And on this radiant, pre-spring day he never knew that he would be alone- paused in his individual shelter, hibernating with paper and pen. And the lines- the eternal stretching pain of the lines- flows like water from melting snow around him. He always thought he would be with her- couldn't imagine, even in this late autumn, that they would be separated by so much distance, that he would still have to hold back all that boils between them. He lives in this soup of emotions- knowing that, somewhere, out there she is waiting- taking care of her infant emotions, making a frail peace out of anger and longing. Unfolding... Here, in his arms is all she needs, is all they need to be whole again- to spend the perfect day painting and panting over this love, years in the making, and zipping from past to future like jet streams! 7/99 II. this is the landscape the place where he waits where the liquid from his eyes are like waterfalls and blood pumped from his heart like stone over and over again he calls her name waiting in shadows for light that never comes he is ruled by the mistress of night the long nights without her it is this tyranny this tyranny of love that has him in its possess that kills him yet keeps him going 7/99 III. There is something that this hand may want here in the land where Dahlgren reigns what it is no one can tell who's telling anyway? cops nazi's the fading christian in the corner? all these things are mixed with sadness and unreason for many reasons they go this way to madness they hurt their hands thrusting them against the nightstand like a many-sided shaded drunkard a blundering idiot without the passion to move clear of the debris it is for all of these reasons they toil to be understood there is no understanding in their world this is why they toil trying to make recompense by loving but all they have is sex and wild memories as wild as the smells and memories of when there was none now their hearts are as full as their hearths gone to over-boil like some wretched witches brew in that dark land where passion is never satisfied and Dahlgren is the leaning tower over them 7/99 carlyle miller
