& Miriam will dance


You can sense the salient resistance
of this old Norway pine
like a mast from Lebanon
in each crust of dried sap.  Straightness

of its upright stance.  Simplicity
of sea-green yearning
toward such bright-swelling
moon… half-dollar of Apollo mission (JFK

smile).  Our SUPERMOON, shedding a silver
reminiscence of sunshine
across crepuscular decline.
Rippling resistance.  What we were

reversing what we are (black sun
of trumped-up emperors
gnawing like rodent-raptors
at the heartwood of the law – treason).

The Song of Miriam, the hymn of exodus
out of the red waters
red white & blue tatters
your sister-dove murmured… passed over us.

My penny in the well, my dark reverberant
exile – the king of Israel
Melchizedek his trial
in Memphis, by the muddy Nile (our

hierophant).  Somehow the 4th of Set
rainbows a seventh 4th
& Juliet comes forth
& Miriam will dance (a Jubilee grande fête).



it's only gravity

… an astronomer consulting the stars to-day would announce
                    that the most favourable day of the year for weighing light is May 29.
                                       – Arthur Eddington, Space, Time and Gravitation

The brightness of the light shines more or less
in various fields of stars.
The Hyades, for instance, are
magnificent – rays bend around the sun’s eclipse

according to their gravity (1132?)
& their displacements make
a parallax, will shake
the skies – like that black hole in Virgo

where the whole cosmos in its photon rings
as in a coelostat on El Principe
looks back from a funhouse mirror
mired in the cryptic gloom one Friday brings

(in April, in RI).  So when Prince Hobo Hal
sets out upon the Ocean stream
paddling his gyroscope-trireme
his dim reflections shade his violet pal

Jean-Jo, behind their glare.  It’s only gravity.
They glide along past green Cahoki-o
beneath a soaring Gateway prow
toward topaz Gulf (ineffable Mardi Gras)

where Jean-Jo’s mild humility
(like unknown soldier or
grey pebble on the shore)
emerges – lightweight solidarity –

& swathes him in a dove-grey cloud
of granite apses, limestone
spires… an airy congregation
of sea-salts (& makes his father proud).



like Frisco shepherd


Our Lenten season creaks along.
Involuntary shut-ins
calibrate their sins
or contemplate that deep-time throng

still singing songs through solid air
(celestial City on a Hill).
Who loves like Roger will
yet see Rose Isle, past baleful stare

& power-grabbing guile.  Meanwhile
Prince Hal will follow Hobo
like Huck Jim, & go
where currents flow (deep Delta style).

That Sleeping Lord of David Jones
dreams watercolor landscapes
old as Magdalenian apes,
bright as Justinian gemstones…

they glow with compassionate faces
beneath shimmering raven-stars
across midnight blue

while drowsy Hobo rolls a smudge of clay
(Pipestone maroon) into an eye
anchored in leafy palm (ala
Cahokia) – de son bateau c’est clé.

The King looks from his mandorla
like Frisco shepherd… mild
as forest mint gone wild,
sweet as nursing nightingale (selah).

His mother is the Queen of France,
his father is invisible
whose whispers out of Israel
ignite Prince Hal’s American romance.



Henry having a royal fit


A limpid morning, Palm Sunday.
In the little woods
behind the Shriners’ (closed)
Hospital, gaunt oaks lift branches high

in anxious supplication (to an emerald
Acorn King).  Prince Hal,
scion of OK Gal, in his corral
of febrile & uneasy crowns, grows bold –

to place his father’s own upon his brow
in the Jerusalem Chamber
(where Huck & Jim clamber
aboard… that cardboard scow,

the trumped-up King of England’s dhou).
The river bends, reverent
& full of revery (blent
with the clay into its royal slough).

You boy, there!  Yes you, boy
rivery O-buoy!  Come here!
King David shall appear
& dance – like naked singularity

or Solomonic wormhole, full of sacred
density – before the Ark!
& with the flicker of a quark
the center of the galaxy turns red

& churns like furnace of the cosmic kiln –
inverted mirror of MLKy
Y’Way – so massively
reflecting (like a missile-toed oak-gall)


that mauve & scarlet Rooster of the Day
who chants his clear call
to Event Horizon Wall
& leads the Magi home – another way!

M87 – black hole (multiplied
by 56, at least) –
from center of the feast
of lights – preternatural Virgo, Argo-eyed

Hagia Sophia – Isis of Ocean River
barge!  Prince Hal
trembles now, elliptical
epileptic – empty Apollo quiver…

overshadowed by that Thunderbird
shadow-of-shadows (el Rio
del Espiritu Santo).
His Ariadne’s Crown only a word

for the implicit eagle’s nest of silence
where the plague-eddies
of blind King Eddy
disappear into Big Muddy, & the dense

congregation of the Humble One
who rides a mule into town
(distance-divided by their own
disease, their wrangles for the crown) –

are suddenly hushed before those lips
mute-smiling, like a rose canoe;
those palms, encircling us now
in one speechless embrace… (love-clasp).



by John Gould's oak


The air so clear, & the evening moon
a bright silver penny
as in the children’s story
walking along my mother’s old lane

(River Road).  Looking back through time
toward rust-bronze Penny
glinting in the well… you & me,
sweet riverbend friend (Rose I. William).

On middle C, in common time, imperfect
we will tap the ivories –
some Memphis honey blues
for Milkman, gone today (perfect

in charity).  I remember how we clung together
in the greenhouse, long time gone.
Now distance is the quarantine… yet
only temporary, Pen.  We’ll meet somewhere

by snowflake relativity – that Providence
where every soul has dignity,
disintegrated from the sea
of Ocean River (Osip’s salience – a

wee raznochinets bubble of pure silvery glee).
The sky.  So clear tonight.
Transparent memory.  A light
chord lingers in the heart (soul liberty

the ancient melody).  Freedom, equality,
respect… humanity.
Like Newport’s Jeremy – buried by
John Gould’s oak, in Hemel Hempstead (age 90).


that hexed hexagon


Only a light whisper of April snow
feathers the riverbank today.
The wind-serpent will flay
with rippling wings its own mud-brown

flow.  The cottonwoods lean overhead
like ribs on a canoe.  Gray veins
of some cast-off snakeskin.
Glass fane of Great Worm (empty, shed).

Where are the springs of yesteryear?
This April curls from cold
& back to cold.  From cold
to cold – inhuman, viral (some Shakespeare

Villon).  So the chill indifference
of animal aggression marks
its seal on each snowflake.
Each one unlike (unique monstrance).

So who invented this immaculate snow?
A mind of winter?  Or
a dreaming Melchior – his
clouds on high, his Bethlehem below?

We sleep, we wake… like soft snowflakes.
We drift, we float… we land
& melt upon a child’s hand.
The soul is like that dark green pine, makes

rough & prickly rooftop – root foundation
for each spindrift, wayfaring
Romany light-traveling
human earth-heart time-migration


– so hear the art then, O spiraling 
hearth!  Martian enfoldment
like arms of Odin, bent
around himself – whole tree corralling!

For Snowflake is that hexèd hexagon
of heaven & earth, joined
in your heart, coined
Abraham – red copper of the gun;

that regal object-dart of adoration
– tangled boomerang, returned
upon itself – urned
at the apex of our celebration;

the bread & wine of every sacrifice
offered by universal Everyman
each time she lifts the can
for mite or gold doubloon… our price.

The light snow sweeps across Ireland
& Minneapolis-St. Paul.
A sweet lamb looks from wall
of van Eyck emerald, almost human (sand

or salt will reveal her, underneath
Mississippi varnish).  Flowers
are eternal, soul-power
is substantial… MELEK shall bequeath

his welcome-gift of bread & wine
on his way to Memphis
for the garbage men.  This
my bodythis my blood.  Lamp, shine.