my Bruegel panorama


The little gold galleys of the butternut
navigate through autumn air.
My Bruegel panorama
of proverbial bird-wit is fading out.

The motherland calls Hobo.  Every leaf
a chaste canoe... Rus, Rus.
The enemy be us,
pugnacious Pogo cries – war is grief

between brothers.  Apollinaire
drifts in gray whiffs
of wistfulness... his skiff’s
more tangled up with Minotaur

than was before, sighs Psyche-
Ariadne.  That graybeard
on Ravenna guard
surrounded by gray paint-debris –

he might be me.  Ocean is gray
as wing of turtledove today.
Way in the middle of the air
Ezekiel saw them wheels a’glory

Louis sang (on path LP
somewhere in Tuscany).
Leonardo da Vinci
drew Vitruvian Man like a Kali

on a microcosmic wheel of fire –
he was such a star!
& in the Last Supper
Judas & Jesus in sfumato-mirror


reach together across girlish Jean –
or do they reach for her?
Shocked faces of the men –
is it betrayal, or espousal sign?

Some knot of gravitational waves
whorls into matrix-vortex.
Beloved spindrift Rex
emergent from that sea of graves –

a eucharist or mystical body
encircled by a palm
inscrutable as that helm
of Jonah, breaching the cloudy

surf of Ocean River – O font
of soul-transfigurement!
So rooted in the fundament
we rise as citizens of Turtle-Tent

when the Eternal comes, & we
are summoned to a wedding-
feast.  Melodious syrinx
of Orpheus-Nazir... blithe epi-

thalamium from sparkle-profundum.
Wrath of Kali-Coatlicue-
Moloch subsides away
& Leonardo frames his simulacrum

of one vernal smile... Mona Lisa
bubbly as Virgin
on the Rocks.  Come in,
she says; God’s blessing in persona.



stars of Jubilee


The cottonwood leaves are golden,
beaten thin by frigid air.
Graphene hearts, everywhere
now (mid-October).  What is Man?

that Thou take heed of him?
Flesh tends to disappear.
To fade – but not before
these bright medallions of seraphim

sail swiftly from the autumn tree.
Invisible beehives
of honey-gold enclaves
cluster like galaxies, ring you & me –

it is that via media,
that midway midéwé
colloquy – humbly
clustering from 6-way

crystalline antipodes – path P
of Providence, the clear
circumference (here
now & everywhere) of high Sophie.

Nerve-center of the flesh-toned bridge
uniting matière, esprit;
Venn diagram, complete
ellipse of air, water & light – edge-

mingled man-&-woman bloom,
transmuting rage & fright
with wisdom’s calm delight
to reconcilement’s sun-filled room


from midnight Minneapolis
(by way of Providence)
into your honey-dense
dawn star-forest – Cosmopolis.

Stars in the deep blue flag echo
that secret Jubilee,
when all the nations will be
reconfigured from the roots of woe

into one level plain of soul
equality & liberty.
So Salvator Mundi
implies, through Leonardo’s ball

of crystal – meek & sheepish mule
of a Franciscan king
correcting everything
with one orthogonal gesture, one smile.

Jesus is for sale at Christie’s, now;
the Earth is up for grabs
as well, it seems; crabs
gather in their gaudy, gilded scow

to celebrate the arrogance of rule;
our men of violence
fill up sad prisons,
cemeteries.  Is Man a Fool?

No... just blind.  Tall cottonwoods
stand, lean together –
dark pillars, that weather
storms of gold in planetary neighborhoods.



pavane pour une enfante


The river’s running high.  A tattered
linen cottonwood leaf
would lief be drifting
down the bronze serpent, toward

New Orleans.  January ice
will buckle on the iron
bridge – kids’ tongues on
frozen playground bars (cruel vise).

Hobo’s pal, Billy Apollinaire,
will mime an Orphic flute.
Satie, Ravel... sweet
astringent melody (pure air,

unseeable).  Pavane pour une
enfante défunte.  Meanwhile
male bondage is in style.
Our Master fabricates jejune

disgust for all things feminine;
his orange bonfires meld
fright into towering shelled
walnut eyries... flight from Someone

unaccountable (strange, uncontrollable).
Within a bomber’s O-range
now (I will arrange
accommodations for my sable

granite safety crypt) some Bluejay
whistles like a soloist
through sea-pine mist
sparse knotty blue-green (sotto voce)


memory.  The threads are fractal,
earth-quick.  Escapees.
Some limestone frieze
of Aphrodite, out of Rimini (or Hell)

feinting assaults above Sault Ste. Marie
(Lawrentian divides
shift icebreaks, tides...)
until the copper icon of green Liberty

lifts torchlight like Hagia Sophie –
her living harmony
of agape, for you
& me, enthroned (Okean-sea).

So like the sun lifting from azure salt
the fellowship of wisdom
born of mute charism
(Love’s lightning catenary vault

of steadfast blooming adoration)
lifts healing rescue-signs
for desolate young queens
& kings of darkened mind, O Solomon;

the little princess Shining Star
pirouettes all morning
in her stone-circling
agate labyrinth (somewhere

near Chartres, Oklahoma) – Ariadne
slips the woolen thread
around your wrist – dead
spring to life (Magdala, Galilee).



bleak side of oblique


The long flat barge, the tugboat
pushing a pile of dirt
upstream – the delicate
reddenings of autumn trees... what

was Henry saying? – up Big Muddy...
Onshore, the back of Hobo
bent like wheedling oboe.
Imago of male failure (Osage hey ey

yo).  Autumn moon... they smoke
& dawdle out the sunshine.
She was a figurehead of mine,
Miss Posy; felled with a single stroke

(of either oar).  Nobody you’d know.
Besides, was long time ago;
sort of a dream-show.
Some tormented buried Poe-ego (Pogo)

traveling unraveled down Path P.
Nominated Henry
(domestic amity
is key to what-y-call happy).

Something between a rat-mensch
& Minotaur.  All entrailed
with entitlements, failed
fatherhoods... sweats on the bench.

Mercy of a rude stream, somebody
said.  Children of want
want what they, but can’t.
Have.  Le-Hev-Hev, spidery


black hole of the cannibals...
Only a drawn-in breath,
inhalation of death.
That’s all, folks (snaky nuptials).

Hollywood, Kali-Kali-fornia.
The sacred woodpecker’s
your twin prospector –
gold-digging Theoria, Inc. (wing

of raven feathering from cloud).
It’s a Pacific mist,
mister – a golden twist
on Vertigo, for crying out loud!

Shapes of a familiar otherness...
someone you know.  Her
scent (don’t bother
to ask).  As from the wilderness

of the sea (or out of a bath).
Not Venus, exactly –
not even Aphrodite...
maybe antipodal Sheba,

Queen of the South?  Or maybe Johnnie
of the Ark, or Jeanne,
or Mary Magdalen...
under cedars of Lebanon (selah).

Sometimes you see a faint rainbow
on concrete sidewalk.
& someday somebody will talk
to you (smiling wave thread shadow).



like a Balinese cock-fight


Poets’ business, like a ring
round a Bali cock-fight –
goodbye to all that.
Shake your kaleidoscope thing,

ping your kalimba – your bricolage
a grubby grab-bag
(seven pounds of brag
& rage, mixed up with garbage).

Meanwhile that flesh-tone bridge
(crossing my Mississippi
song-&-dance) will be
morphing some spider’s double-edge

Venn diagram – a stick figure
at hobo train junction
where sunny Everyman
remembers split Coatlicue.

Rumors of an impasse, whispered
through a chain-link fence.
Barbed lozenge of insistence
scarring Rome, Jerusalem... the word

made fishy (west of Galilee,
east of Athens, Georgia)
as a picnic smorgasbord
laid out beneath barren oak tree.

That smell gets into everything.
Like something baked
a week in a canal – like
messy string theories, untangling


a knotty plot of pots & pans, banging
the human family
to kingdom come (really?)
from seedy tribes to Nero’s hanging

gardens.  Shady Rome, where every
cosmic veil is torn –
& a black rock is borne
upon recalcitrant shoulders of slavery

into the center of a black hole’s
starry honeycomb.
What ass bears the whole
sum?  What shoe of prophet’s mule?

Maybe an offshoot of Coatlicue
wearing a flimsy linen
Joseph-coat.  A woman,
patient Pietà... La Pia, Psyche...

Ariadne or Arachne, raveling
path P... that rugged,
ragged Francine – plugged
at Frisco crossroad – traveling

freight.  Sometimes you meet a person
heavier than time & space.
Rough wind carves well-faces
lined with laughter, hope... pain...

She steps forth from black stone –
stirring bears in her arms,
palming clay amid storms
of adamant love (makar-maid, shown).



flesh-tone bridge


The wistful twirling of a yellow leaf
falling from a book of leaves
by the big river.  Waves
of leaves, infinite beyond belief

slanting down through a universe
beyond fall’s azure,
through its perfect mirror
of ineffable air.  The woodpecker’s

not waxwing, but a twin-bird –
matching Thunderbird
like third wing, or word
thing – in Red Wing, we’ve heard.

& they’ve buffed the naked concrete
of the Franklin Bridge
to warm flesh-tone (Wedge
whistling to Jay : almost complete,

they say).  Like hands arching across
the tingling serpent below
someone signals so –
right, all right.  The frail cosmos

is built of moss & dogwood leaves;
made like a dream-song
on a thread so long
from inner lining of young Osip-sleeves.

Hid in a nightfall of Apollon-wrath.
The child-heart trembles
when the chief dissembles –
ice winking in the barrel underneath


encompassing a land in shambles,
wasted by Behemoth
& Metheboss (cloth-
of-gold twin skimlords, crashing cymbals).

El-Moloch asked for the heart of your son.
For your son the king,
the bloom of everything –
Aztec football in place of the sun.

Apotropaic sign or mirror-pharmakon,
the murmured word of love
becomes a catcher’s glove –
inside-out Osip net (for rescuing someone).

You search the scryptics, yet you
do not come to Me.
Gold almond cider, see?
Where Mendelssohn defeats Deep Blue.

She’s by your side, a kelson, smiling,
spinnaker through gray wall
of seamless cloud – whale
of light fog, swallowing Jonah – a ring

of stone, becoming breathing feathers
for a child of Ocean River,
borne downstream from Neva-
Neva-Heavenland (all-planetary weathers).

Her green eye walks through doors, through gates.
That crossroad in the mirror
overwhelms birth-terror –
seals mazy charter (Liberty checkmates).



at the local cinema


I met the surviving Saarinen,
Eric (from California)
at the local cinema,
showing his film about those Finns –

Eero, Eliel – who competed
to complete a monument
at navel of a continent.
Congratulations E. Saarinen, stated

the telegram.  Nobody knew
which one had won...
uniting father & son
in gratifying mystery.  Eric, too –

the latecomer, the odd man out.
Hurt psyche of a boy
forsaken for his father’s toy,
dream, rest.  Took roundabout

lifetime to ravel up & down
that furious steel arc.
Papa went into the dark
before the triumph of its dawn

upsoaring vault over St. Louis;
yet the late film follows the
mammal-forms – waves, hollows –
Eero spread across that Fifties

U.S. gridscape, breathing curves
& ribs so delicately
bearing gravity
they lift the heart out of its grooves


toward self-transcending levity –
high tensile alcoves
where swirly flocks of doves
shape octave-looping solidarity –

a wider vista of the whole
concordant cosmic good –
a brother & sisterhood
of green, rose red & lilac soul.

Her intricate diamond quipu knot
rays out in six directions.
An acorn salience,
an Oklahoma holm-oak plot.

An atom from a honey-bole.
A seed rooted in sky.
(Suzuki harmony
sounds deep Hiroshima bell-toll.)

Wayfaring Eric, leftover grandson
remembers his abandoned
mother, at the end
of the reel.  Displaced... the unknown

child.  Sculptor of turtleshell
glide-shelters... curling
strands of hair, unfurling
chords of clay (who softly swells

a lightweight matrix).  Tender tower
of color, glowing through
the fading film of you
& me... green mound, light-freckled bower.