6
To drift on a raft, in the cold Gulf
your mother drowned and gone
to the bottom, your no-go
father waiting, wanting to lug
you back to Cuba. Elián González,
refugee. Half-orphan, political
racquetball. On elliptical
orbit... to please the ghost
of his mother, or follow
his father’s voice? A listening
crane on a listing splinter
under unknown stars (willful
beasts beneath transparencies,
emergencies – self-righteous
crowds of kinfolk tyrannies –
calculated raptures, seizures).
And Henry trying to right the boat
from a Babylonian mess, a mes-
tree, a mystery–semblance
muttered by tabulator-
oracles, never getting blind.
All out of fo’csle fire, folks
– star-speech of sophic
sophisticates in dabble-
science. Dark mutter
beneath the beautiful city
of colored stars (drunk on illicit
l-Iku cubes, original razzmatazz
of paradise). Tom Thumb
(vain little man to the finish line)
hefting his axe to shadows, Nile-
willows, round oak boles... mythed
again. It was the voice of Persephone
brought Kore to the well-stone,
sent Gilgamesh nose-tossing
downward toward the Scorpion
or Mother Sun or Dead Zone
south of Canopus and the big
muddy vermin-mouthed gibbous
Nile-thermousine nose-diviner
raft of pap set loose there;
was Sarah Wilds for truth, hung
swinging for it between Hale
Oannos and Oannos Golden (Rhea’s
Salem shulamite for real) and
all the other saints (from Jeannie
arcing east to Mary Easty, swinging
west) fled to our island Rhodes,
colossal Roger Wilco’s will (his palm
of stone extended over the Terrace
of soul freedom, calm, certain)
for every ignited fire-lamb
of foolishness or wisdom (children
circling around a christmas tree
all lit with stars gold-wrought
and silver-shimmering for their delight:
some happy pappy’s saintly clause
exuded from the fireplace or through
the cedar boughs: some wraith
of presence through chalk-
white blindness: deepening snow
of winter night, adrift... a raft
from the serpentine and far
Antipodes). And snow it was –
since the blizzard of the galaxies
unfolds in chaos, and the choppy seas
avoid the careful, coppery seasons
of Assyrian seizures, accidental
Babylons, and the dismal
dizzy darkness bears, it seems,
the single inkspot of a measly
thumbprint (on a live-oak dreidle
backspun against gravity) –
your will, old Roger’s Will, old Roger
Williams’ will – the will to rage
against stars, for heaven’s vague
unvarying stake – rage like a lion
against cruel stars, their stories
and their cold indifference –
muttered spider tales, nails
in the coffin of each living
soul (nursery rhymes, cribbed
around your eyes – the bier,
creaking at the vile Nile mouth).
Ah... but your rage will turn to wonder
and your Martian heart dissolve
upon the hearth, when the love-star
climbs from the depths – the red one,
turning violet and green - the star
that fell into the well in Bethlehem,
the star that guided Balthasar
from the heart of Ethiopia
to the rafters sheltering a refugee
bringing his single gift - an emerald
jewel-ship (tender shell, immured
in his palm... a gleaming nef).
*
Yesterday 200 years ago
a humble father of his country set sail
with Utnapishtim, for the terraces
of Ocean-Sky, in far Ogygia
(where all the rivers meet). O
you who love the land from the bare
cradle of the zu-bird to Arabian
phoenix (Jeannes at the teller teamed
with arching armored Johns adorned
with eddying maelstroms, gunslung tattooed
catch-22s) listen: alpha beta gamma Pegasus
at the Florentine font, 529, sidereal,
intones: go out to the Exalted Courtyard,
Iku-Star – where truth grows saltier,
more regal. Light along an axe-blade travels
upstream (pennyroyal mint) to Blackstone’s font.
12.15.99
7.01.2005
Going to post a couple of oddities from Forth of July for the 4th of July. This one was written on the 200th anniversary of the death of George Washington:
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