9 MEMORIAL DAY
A hush falls over the solemn day. The limping
soldier, under his faded cap, star-hemmed, draws
near – sketching (beneath a tent of constellations)
his cup of cups, his homeless homeland. Mumbling
between 1 point 2... and 1 point 3... His name’s
unknown (only one of a moth of nullifieds). Bit
from all-in-all sky-cavern. Reversible earth-vault
smashed into milky spudscape (gala gallows-game).
Psyche, Blue Morpho... Monarch, Viceroy... just
a little blue babycap of brimful infant-joy – feet
caught amid nets of fire-teeth, anger-spite. Yet
he mumble-burbles... foolish little smile-wastrel!
Wake, worlds! he yells. Awake, windowless ocean!
The fire encircles his googol-cranium – bullets
of cheap death, meant for millions – caskets
for Notre Dame. See the raisin fireseed, O man!
he prunes, in travail. Turn, shun the shells
of brass, people – toward cradle-rockament
of honeybees! Chase cryptic fundamental path
that climbs, my androids, through these hells
of displaced nadir-wells... war-theatre theatres
devised by Everyman – us, prodigo drifter-sons!
An Arabian hula-hoop wheeled by, airborne;
& then I seemed to see his gypsy stepmother
limp alongside him, abeam resinous galaxies.
Eyes closed – across my retina, like a wheel
aflame. Who sketched (feeling her way) on
limestone slab... Stickman. A gate of gates.