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Written by Richard Brautigan | Create an image from this poem

Discovery

 The petals of the vagina unfold
like Christofer Columbus
taking off his shoes.
Is there anything more beautiful than the bow of a ship touching a new world?
Written by Richard Brautigan | Create an image from this poem

Coffee

 Sometimes life is merely a matter of coffee and whatever intimacy a cup of coffee
affords.
I once read something about coffee.
The thing said that coffee is good for you; it stimulates all the organs.
I thought at first this was a strange way to put it, and not altogether pleasant, but as time goes by I have found out that it makes sense in its own limited way.
I'll tell you what I mean.
Yesterday morning I went over to see a girl.
I like her.
Whatever we had going for us is gone now.
She does not care for me.
I blew it and wish I hadn't.
I rang the door bell and waited on the stairs.
I could hear her moving around upstairs.
The way she moved I could tell that she was getting up.
I had awakened her.
Then she came down the stairs.
I could feel her approach in my stomach.
Every step she took stirred my feelings and lead indirectly to her opening the door.
She saw me and it did not please her.
Once upon a time it pleased her very much, last week.
I wonder where it went, pretending to be naive.
"I feel strange now," she said.
"I don't want to talk.
" "I want a cup of coffee," I said, because it was the last thing in the world that I wanted.
I said it in such a way that it sounded as if I were reading her a telegram from somebody else, a person who really wanted a cup of coffee, who cared about nothing else.
"All right," she said.
I followed her up the stairs.
It was ridiculous.
She had just put some clothes on.
They had not quite adjusted themselves to her body.
I could tell you about her ass.
We went into the kitchen.
She took a jar of instant coffee off the shelf and put it on the table.
She placed a cup next to it, and a spoon.
I looked at them.
She put a pan full of water on the stove and turned the gas on under it.
All this time she did not say a word.
Her clothes adjusted themselves to her body.
I won't.
She left the kitchen.
Then she went down the stairs and outside to see if she had any mail.
I didn't remember seeing any.
She came back up the stairs and went into another room.
She closed the door after her.
I looked at the pan full of water on the stove.
I knew that it would take a year before the water started to boil.
It was now October and there was too much water in the pan.
That was the problem.
I threw half of the water into the sink.
The water would boil faster now.
It would take only six months.
The house was quiet.
I looked out the back porch.
There were sacks of garbage there.
I stared at the garbage and tried to figure out what she had been eating lately by studying the containers and peelings and stuff.
I couldn't tell a thing.
It was now March.
The water started to boil.
I was pleased by this.
I looked at the table.
There was the jar of instant coffee, the empty cup and the spoon all laid out like a funeral service.
These are the things that you need to make a cup of coffee.
When I left the house ten minutes later, the cup of coffee safely inside me like a grave, I said, "Thank you for the cup of coffee.
" "You're welcome," she said.
Her voice came from behind a closed door.
Her voice sounded like another telegram.
It was really time for me to leave.
I spent the rest of the day not making coffee.
It was a comfort.
And evening came, I had dinner in a restaurant and went to a bar.
I had some drinks and talked to some people.
We were bar people and said bar things.
None of them remembered, and the bar closed.
It was two o'clock in the morning.
I had to go outside.
It was foggy and cold in San Francisco.
I wondered about the fog and felt very human and exposed.
I decided to go visit another girl.
We had not been friends for over a year.
Once we were very close.
I wondered what she was thinking about now.
I went to her house.
She didn't have a door bell.
That was a small victory.
One must keep track of all the small victories.
I do, anyway.
She answered the door.
She was holding a robe in front of her.
She didn't believe that she was seeing me.
"What do you want?" she said, believing now that she was seeing me.
I walked right into the house.
She turned and closed the door in such a way that I could see her profile.
She had not bothered to wrap the robe completely around herself.
She was just holding the robe in front of herself.
I could see an unbroken line of body running from her head to her feet.
It looked kind of strange.
Perhaps because it was so late at night.
"What do you want?" she said.
"I want a cup of coffee," I said.
What a funny thing to say, to say again for a cup of coffee was not what I really wanted.
She looked at me and wheeled slightly on the profile.
She was not pleased to see me.
Let the AMA tell us that time heals.
I looked at the unbroken line of her body.
"Why don't you have a cup of coffee with me?" I said.
"I feel like talking to you.
We haven't talked for a long time.
" She looked at me and wheeled slightly on the profile.
I stared at the unbroken line of her body.
This was not good.
"It's too late," she said.
"I have to get up in the morning.
If you want a cup of coffee, there's instant in the kitchen.
I have to go to bed.
" The kitchen light was on.
I looked down the hall into the kitchen.
I didn't feel like going into the kitchen and having another cup of coffee by myself.
I didn't feel like going to anybody else's house and asking them for a cup of coffee.
I realized that the day had been committed to a very strange pilgrimage, and I had not planned it that way.
At least the jar of instant coffee was not on the table, beside an empty white cup and a spoon.
They say in the spring a young man's fancy turns to thoughts of love.
Perhaps if he has enough time left over, his fancy can even make room for a cup of coffee.
-from Revenge of the Lawn
Written by Richard Brautigan | Create an image from this poem

Color As Beginning

 Forget love 
I want to die 
in your yellow hair
Written by Richard Brautigan | Create an image from this poem

Haiku Ambulance

 A piece of green pepper
fell
off the wooden salad bowl:
so what?
Written by Richard Brautigan | Create an image from this poem

Love Poem

 My clumsiest dear, whose hands shipwreck vases,
At whose quick touch all glasses chip and ring,
Whose palms are bulls in china, burs in linen,
And have no cunning with any soft thing

Except all ill-at-ease fidgeting people:
The refugee uncertain at the door
You make at home; deftly you steady
The drunk clambering on his undulant floor.
Unpredictable dear, the taxi drivers' terror, Shrinking from far headlights pale as a dime Yet leaping before apopleptic streetcars— Misfit in any space.
And never on time.
A wrench in clocks and the solar system.
Only With words and people and love you move at ease; In traffic of wit expertly maneuver And keep us, all devotion, at your knees.
Forgetting your coffee spreading on our flannel, Your lipstick grinning on our coat, So gaily in love's unbreakable heaven Our souls on glory of spilt bourbon float.
Be with me, darling, early and late.
Smash glasses— I will study wry music for your sake.
For should your hands drop white and empty All the toys of the world would break.
Written by Richard Brautigan | Create an image from this poem

At the California Institute of Technology

 I don't care how God-damn smart
these guys are: I'm bored.
It's been raining like hell all day long and there's nothing to do.
Written January 24, 1967 while poet-in-residence at the California Institute of Technology.
Written by Richard Brautigan | Create an image from this poem

Less Time

 Less time than it takes to say it, less tears than it takes to die; I've taken account
of everything, there you have it.
I've made a census of the stones, they are as numerous as my fingers and some others; I've distributed some pamphelts to the plants, but not all were willing to accpet them.
I've kept company with music for a second only and now I no longer know what to think of suicide, for if I ever want to part from myself, the exit is on this side and, I add mischievously, the entrance, the re-entrance is on the other.
You see what you still have to do.
Hours, grief, I don't keep a reasonable account of them; I'm alone, I look out of the window; there is no passerby, or rather no one passes (underline passes).
You don't know this man? It's Mr.
Same.
May I introduce Madam Madam? And their children.
Then I turn back on my steps, my steps turn back too, but I don't know exactly what they turn back on.
I consult a schedule; the names of the towns have been replaced by the names of people who have been quite close to me.
Shall I go to A, return to B, change at X? Yes, of course I'll change at X.
Provided I don't miss the connection with boredom! There we are: boredom, beautiful parallels, ah! how beautiful the parallels are under God's perpendicular.
Written by Richard Brautigan | Create an image from this poem

The Beautiful Poem

 I go to bed in Los Angeles thinking
about you.
Pissing a few moments ago I looked down at my penis affectionately.
Knowing it has been inside you twice today makes me feel beautiful.
3 A.
M.
January 15, 1967
Written by Richard Brautigan | Create an image from this poem

Its Raining In Love

 I don't know what it is,
 but I distrust myself
 when I start to like a girl
 a lot.
It makes me nervous.
I don't say the right things or perhaps I start to examine, evaluate, compute what I am saying.
If I say, "Do you think it's going to rain?" and she says, "I don't know," I start thinking : Does she really like me? In other words I get a little creepy.
A friend of mine once said, "It's twenty times better to be friends with someone than it is to be in love with them.
" I think he's right and besides, it's raining somewhere, programming flowers and keeping snails happy.
That's all taken care of.
BUT if a girl likes me a lot and starts getting real nervous and suddenly begins asking me funny questions and looks sad if I give the wrong answers and she says things like, "Do you think it's going to rain?" and I say, "It beats me," and she says, "Oh," and looks a little sad at the clear blue California sky, I think : Thank God, it's you, baby, this time instead of me.
Written by Richard Brautigan | Create an image from this poem

Gee Youre So Beautiful That Its Starting To Rain

 Oh, Marcia, 
I want your long blonde beauty
to be taught in high school,
so kids will learn that God
lives like music in the skin
and sounds like a sunshine harpsicord.
I want high school report cards to look like this: Playing with Gentle Glass Things A Computer Magic A Writing Letters to Those You Love A Finding out about Fish A Marcia's Long Blonde Beauty A+!
Written by Richard Brautigan | Create an image from this poem

Just Because

 Just because
people love your mind, 
doesn't mean they 
have to have 
your body, 
too.
Written by Richard Brautigan | Create an image from this poem

We Stopped at Perfect Days

 We stopped at perfect days
and got out of the car.
The wind glanced at her hair.
It was as simple as that.
I turned to say something--
Written by Richard Brautigan | Create an image from this poem

My Nose Is Growing Old

 Yup.
A long lazy September look in the mirror say it's true.
I'm 31 and my nose is growing old.
It starts about 1/2 an inch below the bridge and strolls geriatrically down for another inch or so: stopping.
Fortunately, the rest of the nose is comparatively young.
I wonder if girls will want me with an old nose.
I can hear them now the heartless bitches! "He's cute but his nose is old.
"
Written by Richard Brautigan | Create an image from this poem

Donner Party

 Forsaken, fucking in the cold, 
eating each other, lost 
runny noses, 
complaining all the time 
like so many 
people 
that we know
Written by Richard Brautigan | Create an image from this poem

Milk For The Duck

 ZAP!
unlaid / 20 days

my sexual image
isn't worth a shit.
If I were dead I couldn't attract a female fly.