spoke of a water-wheel


Along the riverbank, these rich
dark green moss-terraces;
a miniature forest
spreading wide along each niche

of Pliocene sea-limestone.
Archive of mollusc-whorl
& sea-worm spiral
layers of plastered ivory linen.

An infinitely tiny bronze
french horn accompanies
trompette marine – Willie’s
gauzy smoke-signal de Paris;

petrified remains of carven
calumet from Red Wing,
maybe.  This is nothing
like a Pipestone atlatl, Raven

croaks.  Spoke of a water-wheel,
more likely.  Jessie O’s
clay potter swells
with gentle pats & frills – feel

how her spine of Fish-Man surfaces
profound supremacy of whale!
A wheel that will not fail
springs to its trickle-task, washes

the wilderness from every face
until its light-green glory
meshes Ezekiel’s story –
wheel wends with wheel (a carapace


of pearl enfolds that golden bough)
until a plangent joy
beams from unfurling J
in spokes of rose aye-aye lands now –

one Great Red Spot, so thundery
& jovial – one Yahweh-
Manitou, in one streamway –
the Rio del Espiritu, at play

across prairies & meadowlands
in centrifugal fugue –
day-lily orange bugle-
calls, mauvelets a monarch understands –

until at last the torch of Liberty
lifts from her copper shroud

to chant moss-green out loud
& set the Mississippi free...

As when the labyrinth of St. Louis
glimmers wheat-gold amid
deep shade (Monk’s Mound)
– & signs the tidal drone (commence!)

to shift the Earth from fraudulence –
fallacious Midas-usura
whose Minotaur is US-
R-US – whose glow of carbon flatulence

burns orange rage (from White House
into every gilded cage)
& all the world’s a stage
for strutting tyros in malevolence...


Peace is another way.  Humility.
How Eeyore-mule (San Fran)
transmutes to Eero Saarinen.
With the power  of soul   any-

thing is possible   the tacit poverty
of yearning love  bent
by Br’er Francesco’s Lent
into a welcoming   equality

chaste eye of akme equity
out of an almond branch
in Petersburg   will launch
once more   peals of humanity

from the great Rose of Providence
wheeling & swinging wide
with Chartres sunlight   O glide
with me   downstream, Hobo   immense

Pacific beckons   from the galaxies
where kind Melchizedek
pours milk of live-oak
acorn mead   shares bread   from nursing

YHWH’s heart   sweet Manitou’s   delight.
Enfolded in the subtle veil
of golden fleece   & gray whale-
oil   that infinite fine safety-net

swings like a hammock in the breeze
beneath twin flaming pillars
where a starfish falls
& lifts her   from salt wave   to Paradise



in my style of raven-squawk


America, replete with stories,
bursting with tales – I’ll
tell you another, in my style
of raven-squawk (Cautantowwit’s

oblique rescue-directions, south-
southwest).  Narragansett
wraith of Afterlife – what
zigzags from the smokehole (mouth

full of shade).  Ink-echo of an Incan
Thunderbird, or bald eagle,
or maybe owl.  Feel
the light gray prickling your human

scalp, Columbia.  That Mexican
tin double-dove mirror
frames Aztec cult of fear
& violence (Dia de Muertos, Halloween).

The Consul, slobbering mescal,
muttering William Blackstone...
Went to live with Indians...
With Narragansetts.  Harboring all

refugees – all troubled, exiled souls
(Rog Williams testified).
& so we double back to Rhode
Island, to Providence.  My school’s

a bit of Brownian motion, drawn in
toward indomitable diamond
by Love’s invisible almond.
As magnet gathers scattered iron


into a Magna Chartres wheel
her beautiful dove-wings
breathed into lungs
inured to painvine (coal dust, steel)

& lifted Life up wholly from the ground.
That green palm held by Alighieri
circuited grey orrery
spun from high Ocean River State – profound

light fiery water vessel made of clay
wrested from death-cave
to quintessential grave
transfiguration – your soul’s dancing ray.

It is Love’s interlacing hands
figuring a catamaran

or Manitou two-woman
womb-canoecrossweaving islands

in a cat’s-cradle (a fleecy safety-
net).  You may not
recognize the US yet
in such pre-Cambrian confetti –

Ezra Caw-Caw Ezekiel, on his harsh
bark, wandered, insane
with hatred.  All began
in 1913, he would cuss – poison marsh-

land of the War to End All Wars...
Yet Henry’s hobo mule
mutters an older Yule
under his breath.  Open the doors...


those silver mirror-doors of monarch-land.
Roger’s canoe banks in Ferrara
shade-garage... Alleluiah.
A little almond planted on good ground

blooms to Eternity.  Thanksgiving
magnanimity, sweet William
sings; the grey I AM
flickers in flocks of overshadowing

lightness.  The one who made himself
perfect transparent acorn
octahedron – he was born
at end of May (ancient festival

of restoration).  Like evergreen
King Arthur... JFK
or MLK... Melchizedek
emerges from his tent of welcoming.

The doom that Jesus faced on Golgotha
he had prepared for, long
before.  Green prow or prong
of spiritual Power, he bent like Uther

Pendragon into the beggar-skins of men;
he smiled, & shared the bread
& wine; made his last bed
a sepulcher of victory, beyond our ken.

Over America, the clouds roll by.
The curling fiddlehead,
the milkweed pod... float
on your way, Monarch.  Souls never die.



St. Henry's Day


Hobo (the Holey Roamin’ Umpire)
waits on a pitch from Sleepy-Eye
Hank.  It is his day.
Home plate always Big Mother Star-

Fish play (a hide-seek curve ball –
Dad’s Scrambled Hamlet).
Around 9 innings yet.
Black diamond in Elkhart... St. Paul

stole bases off that pokey Cobb
(guess – tie).  The Twins
still mirroring last year’s
lost wins.  The ball can wobble

1132 feet per sec – 33 miles
per the union (1099).
Hank Aaron was my man.
Hit the dead aim toss, all smiles –

black pay-dirt (out of Elkhart minors
graveyard).  Rod bloomed,
the whole world boomed –
from Thunder Winnebago Hen (majors,

truly) into found pro (his Red-Eye Land).
Only a game, anyway.
If somebody tries to say
who started it... sweet Joanny Hand

of Gracie Mansion, twirling down
on Monday morning
(twilight grey).  So swing
on, Homer Hank – de day’s yo own.



in memoriam Liu Xiaobo

                                                i.m. Liu Xiaobo

The workmen are building a great new wall
beside my octagonal turtle-
hermitage – where Sophie’s little
ruddy chair sits patiently, for one & all.

Another chair remained in Stockholm,
waiting for a noble prince
to win his prize of Peace.
His prize is won.  He’s going home.

He held his vigil by Heavenly Gate.
Hatred can rot a person’s
wisdom & conscience,
enemy mentality poison the spirit

of a nation, inflict brutal life & death
struggles, destroy a country’s
tolerance, humanity...
They want to bury him deep in the earth

yet verily I say to you, unless
a grain of wheat falls
into earth & dies,
it remains alonebut if it dies

it bears much fruit.  I remember
the orange Chinese lantern
peeking its bright octagon
out of green shade.  Welcome glimmer

with hidden crimson berry – lamp
of mountain sheepherder
marked by the torture
cell like turtleshell (or scarab stamp)


only to grope toward pine-green Liberty.
My beetle’s modest haruspex,
the ideogram for pontifex,
key row-your-boat for Vera City –

check the N-trail labyrinth.
This liver between Earth
& Sky was micro-moth
or Maximus (locked up til 44th

of July, by Bureau of Injustice).
His wounded knee, his tender
foot, his gentle mind were
furrowed brow, for cultivating scholars...

Thrones are made for serial tumblers.
You can demote King Tubby Lou,

kill Voodoo Queen Marie – so
what?  Arrestocrats come back in numbers

juggling for electric chairs.  Polly
Pound says so, the mystical
Apologist of Tyranny; she’ll
sow you Uncle Ez’s grapes – see

how they make great yappy whine!
(& his chinoise Confusion
still bakes a mean Rune
Cake.)  He not the Way, sez Hen.

The blot thickens.  Blue Emperor Mon-Ki,
with his twin princelings, Rude May-Hem
& Gilt Moon-Eye... descended from
Lord Me-Man, Minotaur of Die-Nasty...


[sludge on the honey-scroll, I guess]
We circulate by arrow-
glance, the human sorrow
of disharmony (each creepy-eepy instance);

only the gentleness of Manitou
the windy sheep-liver
& fleet   lamb-giver
who stands   magnanimous & true

blue cedar (melodious   rainbow
of royal   Reality)
is King.  So let her be.
Your soul, sealed so, dear Liu Xiaobo –

your spouse, waiting by prison-house,
will flex her wings, & spread
your word – rise from the dead;
her torch (inalienable human justice)

shines from copper harbors & green hills;
over harm & over hate,
ever-flowing   light on light
descends   like turtledove   on twisted wills

to straighten ways   streams merging
into concord   toward the sea
Ocean of Charter 8   mercy
& fellowship   in gratitude   Thanksgiving

Day   after the battlefields are still
& Liberty beams   far & wide
her smile   across the tide
& turmoil of the mind’s   sand-castle jail



ovals over pyramids


That poor man’s body frozen in the snow
at Wounded Knee.
Big Foot, mistaken for somebody
else (Sasquatch?  Goliath?).  Into

the valley of the shadow goes, Raven.
Wisdom & humility,
twin sisters.  See
how the old chief aches for comprehension.

Forbearance, mutual understanding,
peace.  In short supply
fallen under Assyria –
out in the sticks (Badlands), freezing.

When flour’s ground, small insects too
are crushed.  Bullish philosophy
for young rough riders, bloody
with their ba-ball clubs (Yankee, Hindu).

Boys ape men’s wars for an inheritance.
The monarch, meanwhile, churns
reptile venom – earns
replication in a prairie sundance

all the way to Mexico.  A delicate
sword fight with Judy Hotchkiss
(deadly bees taken amiss
lead Rachel down to Sheol, Juliet)

ends in snowballing massacre
the day after (frozen
conclusion).  Take me away
from these scenes, black star


of harvest moon – bury them in trench
to hide the crying shame
of unquenched hell-flame
(mustard kiln rank with lime-stench).

Eyes frost over.  Hopelessness
of dauber’s art.  Oddly
placed boulders, hardly
balanced on the tip of mysterious

20th century placement & weathering.
Glazed over enough, yah?
Giotto’s all the cry
now, Cimabue – gag order on that thing

hung over the Capitol (New Glum).
Crowds trading places

for a view of the races
at State Fair (Human Bird-Hum).

Awake, Russia!  Make America
Great Again!  Nation
shall lift gas station
against nationfail, Columbia!

Everything is inside out, & there’s
the Salamanca forest
for recalcitrant peacocks.
Even so.  This grey pebble, this

kamen soldier, simple carpenter
might open just one eye
in palm of clay hand, see –
check the hoary Isis river-


level, placed like a Franklin Bridge
between twin banks.
Through airy arc (thanks,
Saarinen) soars prairie Wind-Wedge

(spooky Manitou’s whole altar).
She’s not a Ghost Dance,
she’s an entrance-trance –
a way of weighing Light Feather

against your heavy heart (soul-
sorrow).  Lake Victoria
or little Lake Itasca
spring to mind – Madonna del

Parto – light-skipping lamp-sheep
traipsing grass mosaic
in shade-sketch (archaic
camera oscura).  Black Elk sleeps

& dreams.  Big Foot & Wounded Knee
& Buried Heart &
Yearning Soul & Mind
lift from that heap of yesterday...

light feather-memory.  Young one
be strong, be good,
be not afraid.  World
law of gentleness is airy crown –

breeze breathing through the universe
bestowing life upon
worried monkeys – sun-
heart of Wakan Tanka (Jesus-nurse).



one last hurdle, Amelia


The gazebo’s grime-filmed mosquito net.
The black chain-link fence
in backyard Providence
climbed by Clem (mock-orange? Nyet).

Elegant quincunx in Cyrus-orchard.
Natural calculations
for dames in Netherlands –
to sieve the flux of spacetime (hard

homework).  Oxidized old photographs
curl to brown negatives.
A lime-warp cosmos
rolls up like a scroll of epitaphs

on fire.  So memory seems to curdle
too.  Gรถdel’s fetal pose
(knot of incompleteness).
Here’s the Pacific! – one last hurdle,

Amelia.  Archival snapshot
lost at sea...  your back
on deck, maybe?  Ack-
ack survivor?  Unknown soldier?  Dot

gone a-whaling vast expanse,
revived in some albumen
album.  Icarhea, return
amaze us.  Dad is dead.  All US

mourns you, lass.  Jesus the airman
in a Paris dream   floats
through rainbow dust-motes
light checkmate   first the grain


then the ear   then the grain
of wheat   in the heart
of your ear   lost art
of flying flute   solo   Dakota plain-

song   Black Elk   pilot-fish
naturally Christian
(more so than mission-
school)   so dream your spirit-wish

when the brutal tide of inhumanity
recedes   we will stand
by the shores of Mini-land
bullets   baby hummingbirds   no-see-

ums now   old Green Man chair
of Old Man North   unseen
now too   copper-sheen
bright mold of Liberty   still there

like curule seat of Caesar (Jules)
a Dante chair   Mom spied
in the PX   at Salvation Army
& dragged back home   April Fools!

It’s very rocky   in Armenia
an Abyssinian ark   sleeps
in Paul Bunyan steeps
a Tuscan nurses   meek Elephantea

with yellow ivory   fantasia
folk tales of the sun
shining   for everyone
through rose-glass coracles (acacia)


Sunset (Mississippi River at St. Anthony Falls)


broody engraving


As when a song transposes suddenly
into more stringent chords
the charismatic words
Dante-Apollinaire relay

from salty mud-flats of Ravenna
hungry Parisian streets
emerge with copper rivulets
of Mississippi calumet – that gateway

mound out of the bottomland
that mundus in a grove
or Okie Argo alcove
up from rustling bronze riverbend.

A pileated woodpecker
with fiery crest drives
toward dread beehives
of Annie Oakley – checkmates her

bull’s-eye – knocks at the door
of sharpshooter & target
as she drills toward
his dragon-beak of pain & blood, for

leafy harvest-time of bread & wine 
(ripe honey-gold high meed
poured out of night   freed
goldfinch   slipped from nest of twine).

So Thunderbird laced the perimeter
like one ghost dancer over
one ghost kingdom.  Power
flickered from its lightning center


& with spark of recognition
the Life-whirr dove across
an abyss of non-existence
wakening green acorn nation

to restoration of all things
as it was in the beginning
ever shall   beginning
with your soul & mine.  The king’s

a monarch like Melchizedek
alighting on a milkweed
whose electric feed
mauve candelabra Shaker-speak

& lift the everlasting seed
to drift on orange wings
& ange d’or strings
to azure Gates   high watershed

for humble mule-servant   that beggar’s
beggar   slave’s life-saver
huffy Hen’s   broody engraver
Elijah’s raven   bearing messages

like crumbs of hope   for dying prophets
thirsting by the stream
to hear the pure Dream-
Songe   of limpid safety-nets

where rivers stream toward glory
in the salt infinity
one sarabande soul-tree
of beaming suns   their wake of Victory



musing on time passing


Hobo lingers in his old hideout,
musing on Time passing
inexorable, unceasing.
Even that Son of Man, no doubt,

is subject to the steady stream.
That He rose from the dead
after the carmine dogwood
petals bled... is like a dream –

when broken Magdalen beheld
Him, held Him tight
as she lay, hid by night
stone still, in sleep – felled

by the noon nightmare upon the hill.
It is a mystery
too deep for Hobo, or for me.
Jesus submitted to the Father’s will –

not on Golgotha, but with every beat
of that red pulsing wheel
of Ocean River (waxy seal
for human honeycomb – complete

sweet sign of infinite benevolence).
My yellowing maroon
& off-white leaf-pontoon...
my Hobo raft snaking past violence,

my dogwood octagon, shaved off
by Time into a simple
convex fish-vessel...
my melting hexagon, snow-staff


of almond blooms, shading a well
in Palestine... stone skiff
leaping Gennesaret – if
only all these metaphors knot in one spell!

The spiral of a fingerprint
in limestone sea-cave
might unfurl a concave
hour-glass – etch kind intent

in pregnant sheets aslant the wind.
Each step taken, each
wave-slap on the beach
will glance to faceted perfection – find

ripe summa in a planetary plan;
the ants have theirs, Hobo
his role to play – go
find her, who unveils the sun of Man!

Magnanimous dome (Emanu-el’s)
on Morris Avenue,
your turtleshell (blue
arc of sky over her Book of Kells)

circumferences a shady tree
of leafy ladders (Jacob’s,
Jonah’s... Honest Abe’s).
We climb together, you & me,

through thunderclouds of poetry –
counting the heartbeats
as we rise... fleets
thread the Gate, to open sea.



the wind-chime found


The gazebo is an octagon
of peace & quietness
this morning.  A salience,
a turtleshell (on gray-green

surface of a Sunday plane).
By the tumbledown back
fence, buried in black
soil & leaf-remains (rain-

soaked), I found a mysterious
old wind-chime.  Slim row
of silver pipes, bow-
tied to tangle free by turquoise

winged cherub (with turtledove
nestled against his chest,
like a kid’s cherished
carrier pigeon).  Bell-tones hove-

to in the air, by the furrowed brow
of weathered cedar gazebo-
door.  We’ve all passed over
the red, & through blue forest now

ring the tiny silver seraphim;
your carmine car is here
from emerald whispershere
cry the whirl-a-wings, that skim

in ferrous rings’ unmoving flight
above elongate coracle
of almond lips...  One coal
glows from steep well of night


like North Star in vast Ocean State
– one double rose wheel
swelling out of two – seal
of Elohim! – Love to consecrate;

the union of the subtle One
who hums through everyone
across creation – sun-
dance of manifold children, spun

by tread of Ariadne-gold –
maize ring of Chartres
frisbee’d to Paradise
atop oblong St. Louis mound

by monks’ naval arc-sheepfold.
As in shady Ravenna once
forecast of Providence
uttered by clay beseeching, rolled

from dusty lips toward dark mosaic;
fast prayer of Alighieri
bent by Beatrice
via sigh of starlight...  On a windbreak

east of Voronezh, quick beak
of finch-tuned Mandelstam
corrals her sweet I AM
within a limpid rill of spring – a streak

of black-gold monarch wings
slant toward akme
of octave solidarity –
whose fife-hum resurrection brings.



still life life still


So summer, Susanna, slowly, slowly
decelerates, among the weeds
& celery, the radish seeds.
&, painted into a corner, quietly

arrives full stop.  Like Peto
still life.  Or Adagietto
seeping on the Lido.
Gradually.  More things, Horatio,

than are dreamt of...  Plumb pleroma
if you can, Hobo –
speak what we feel we know,
somehow.  Premonitions (like a

wind-blown pennant toppling
at Little Big Horn).
Do not compare, Son
of the Morning Star (glass tippling);

you are the only one of a kind
Wakan Tanka.  To come
back from the grave... some
stretch, Hermione.  Out of your mind?

The Blue Morpho of Vladimir
eludes his abstract net –
yet he’ll catch a Hazel.
Bet.  Meet your double in a mirror

(is good luck, not bad).  The way
a doubting Peter folds
a king of hearts, & holds
the diamond.  One homing ray


unlocks the elephant casket (gold-
lined interior, with keys
to inside story)
figured by Jonah, Susanna – double

coracles conveying chronicles
to Finland, now, for you.
Finis.  He’s us, too.
With eyes like Mirror Lakes

in Mendelssohn, down Arthur Street
(the once & future thing).
Two heavy charms, making
an up-quark reddish baryon, Snoopy –

hiccups of a Higgs bison, maybe?
Concerns which we cannot
discern at CERN, just yet.
Professor Nyet beside the Neva...

Knock it off, Nobby.  That Large
Hadron won’t bunt the Standard
Model for 1000 millionths of
a billionth of a second, pard.  No, Sarge.

I was just napping by the meteor,
that’s all.  It rolled away
(under the elements, maybe).
Not Hobo, not Pope... Columbus, neither.

Those deep brown hazel eyes absorb
monarchs on milkweed... ah,
she weeps.  Who spans her glistening orb?



all manner of thing


Old Hobo drowses near the summit
of summer.  He sits
in the midst of his nitwit
desires, like Hobo King; he would not

harm a bug, much less a refugee
plodding to the ports
with worn-out bags, hurt
babies on their backs... ay me!

Corruption is an empty shell
sans floor beneath.
Dons with shark teeth
bowl cannon balls in hell.

He muses on St. Thomas More
& Maximus, a little more;
Susanna’s chaste amour,
the hanging gardens of the Moor.

Lambs in their locality
taste the long grass
while summers pass,
yielding too much reality;

Hobo sleepwalks with the rest,
absorbed in his dream-
sponge.  Every seam
fans rain from peacock-fest –

an early-bird worm-hunters’ realm
inscaped with infinite
abundant life... articulate
splendor from the milky helm


of Wisdom’s gratified delight.
No beast can overwhelm,
no tyrant flim-flam
microcosmic Man’s birth-right,

intones mild Maximus from his
ascetic prison-cell;
all shall be well,
all manner of thing – from fire-fizz

to salmon-grill, from trumpet-vine
to orange safety-net,
all shall be swell.  Get
you, my child, to the heart of Man –

it is no absence in Creation,
but flutter of a smile;
a wing-beat with no guile,
eyes’ icon of ineffable Person.

Draw near.  Hobo is dreaming now.
Rio del Espiritu...
a river-mystery.
Gazes at figurehead upon a prow.

One climbing from the grave.  Jonah?
Eurydice?  Mary
sleeps in the cemetery –
dreams within a dream.  Selah.

Calm-spinning, like a gyroscope,
the Hobo-King advances
toward the tomb of Lazarus.
Her mandorla... light rays the slope.