OVER AMERICA
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-canoe – crossweaving 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.
7.18.17
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