hope is the anchor of the soul

DRY THICKET

The salty bread & wine of commonweal

is not a partisan domain;

it came before Abel & Cain,

magnanimous magma of the real.

Like these green palm-prints in a ring

my daughter planted on a square

of Grace’s linen, whirling there

like burning wings of seraphim (wheeling,

wheeling)... the Power of the universe

flames through a hearth-fire

(undermining empire

with compassionate adhesiveness).

I watched this morning as a lone

bald eagle, gliding quickly

in great catenary

arcs (like Guillem de Gellone

or Joachim, the hermit of Fiore)

mimed curvature of bridge

along that autumn ridge

like a daguerrotype from Civil War –

the process signifying Liberty

teeters twin wings

an unknown soldier brings

to bear (O turtledove of solidarity).

The downward angle of the bird

that signifies nekuia

& kenosis (ah,

bright wings!) so anchoring the word

                    *

she flies – & radiates upward (selah)

that Shekinah you heard

wailing in Ramah (sword

rotating every way)... hey ey

yo, Ma!  Your motherland the Earth

is calling you, Hobo.

Only primordial blue

clay, replicating Ocean birth

can shape the high ship of the whole.

Those human ribs, breathing

from Galilee to Sing-Sing

slip the galley through a needle –

bear Arcturus to the North Pole

via waltz of galaxies –

salve memories

of lost sailors, & reconcile them all.

Hope is the anchor of the soul.

Light seed, planted in soil

of churnagogue, still

twirling on your milky way... scroll

out your almond gospel alms,

Melchizedek... your ray

through aquiline papyrus

lens, through Gilead pine-balms.

The clay awaits your bread & wine.

The heart yearns for it,

through dry thicket

retina of Man – your sappy pine.

10.26.17

We few, we happy few

PARIS JACK

                        i.m. John Berryman (on his birthday)

October burnishes the oaks

to ruddy bronze.  Ancient

St. Crispin’s Day, meant

for veterans, the player-folks

of Agincourt & Balaclava

(ours not to reason

why)... bright caparison

of mental mists, pink pillbox (ah,

Jackie).  Man, the intelligence

of his soil... what triggers wars?

Mobs of blood & tears...

flame, shadow-boxing with a fence...

In chessboard worlds of red & black

for every victor there’s

a loser too – King Henry’s

brother-band meets Paris Jack,

sad Roy du Jour.  So each Garfield

meets his Guiteau – the best

& worst, the first & last,

the wheat & tares blent in a field

of glory (shriven up in sheaves).

Was it for blood & soil?

Intelligence of soul

says no.  What man or woman loves

in battlefield or study is

glory itself, & fellowship

in pain (joined at the hip) –

not flags or nationalities

                  *

but one star over Ark & Argo-ship.

Light from a tiny acorn

grows resplendent Okean –

sunlight of restoration (skip,

Jackie, Jean, around that Minotaur

of stupid pride – a hollow

idol full of nothing, O).

This living Imogen is where you are.

Let’s stand with that Shakespearean

from this day to the ending

of the world.  His battling

with fright (mother loss & father gun)

an inward thing, not of the arrogance

of windy crowds (a victory

over himself the only

guarantee of happiness).  An instance

for the rest of us (the human race,

that is).  Restoration

of an idea – of a nation

of united nations, reconciled by grace

& with humility.  Familia of Man.

As Imogen stepped from the cave

so Henry might rise from his grave

– somehow Franciscan, now.  His plan

simply to walk across these states

barefoot, like Mark Baumer –

glad-handing poet-palmer,

Johnny Appleseed (with acorns, dates).

10.25.17

it hovers outside

FATAL SALIENCE

Hobo mumbles along the riverbank

as October air grows cool

& clear.  The leaves, old fool,

the leavings... swift canoes, that sank

like royal palms into an azure sky,

into a fiery wheel

of oven-clay.  A seal

baked into bright red wax... on our way

to London, Guildenstern.  Or to

Verona, Ferrara...

mirrors of Ravenna

(fatal salience, Ursiana’s woe).

Surrounded by wolf-raven, Juliet.

You dance the sacrifice

like unto death (Paris

1913) – knifed in the clammy sweat

of granite vault, the stony silence

of the lie – artillery

deployed (ply over ply).

& does she live or die?  Hence,

Hobo-Romeo – you’ll roam

like Orpheus in hell,

sleepwalk a frozen spell

(so buried man goes skipping home,

strange hierophant).  Ineffable

grey granary of wisdom,

Ursiana’s 8-pt. dome

gathered to a grain of sable

                  *

sand... one little grain of sand.

As in articulate horsehair-

dream of Leonardo, air

figures crystal acorn – understand,

it hovers outside everything, & so

transmits clear folds

of Salvator’s bold

Nazir-songe.  Swing low,

sweet chariot... ray forth your fire

out of an almond eye

blazing   you shall not die

with gallant measure to inspire

the rooster of the Earth to crow

like Voronezh raven, or

like Vitruvian Man

from center of the Earth grow

feathers   coppery feathers   Ferrarese

Veronese  hazy

morris-dancing   mazy

corn mandala   limping   A-Z

sweet librarian   Natasha

or Nadezhda   sister-doves

swelling   dawn alcoves

of spring   primordial   selah

in the mandorla   of the casket-

womb   you must be borne

aloft   grey   Valentine

your sepulchre   1132   (kismet)

10.23.17

rim of that heavenly Rome

COSMIC BATTLE

Inching back with my mother down

the nursing home hallway

from dining hall... hey ey

yo.  Keep her from falling (too soon).

Sprightly, amnesiac, brave.

We filtered burnt photographs’

international orange (‘70s

epitaphs).  Look – you still wave

from chilly distance, eldest one.

Your sister, brothers... your

father, meek & mild... War

obliterates peripheral vision, son.

Like game of hangman (simplified).

Figure out the letter

in the word.  Row, Edgar

Poe – enough rope be dangled

like that infamous platform

lifted out of season

like Francis from prison...

only to travel far from harm

along a single beam of light.

Real American creed

spooling through Voodoo

Queen Marie – gonna be all right.

Antithetical Poe held

his ivory casket

in a bird-basket –

row, row, coracle... spelled

               *

IONAH on the bow... over & out

for now.  The cosmic battle

between Caesar & that

measly songster (Stalin puttin’ Anna

into the hollow double-barrels

mimicking Utopia – everyone

happy in warehouse, hon)

becomes a set of Shaker castanets

or scallop-shells of Aphrodite;

– a skirmish in St. Louis

soars above Cahokia (she’s

us) into a supple Rimini-

design.  The poet, poison-pounded

pharmakon, cribbed out

his hazy Paraclete

in limestone layerings – founded

Apollinairy nothings on a pole-starred

pine.  Rose horizontal stripes

on snow led wayward ships

to Milky Way, somehow (the bard

might know).  Over the river E

(for equal sign) carry

me back to cosmic liberty,

Eurydice – united we are free;

like Sophie with P. della Francesca fan

loving galactic neighbors

stitch their laborious

light-canoe (twin Manitou of Man).

10.21.17

my Bruegel panorama

AUTUMN AIR

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.

10.19.17

stars of Jubilee

DARK PILLARS

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.

10.16.17

pavane pour une enfante

LIMESTONE FRIEZE

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).

10.11.17

bleak side of oblique

THREAD SHADOW

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).

10.8.17

like a Balinese cock-fight

FRISCO CROSSROAD

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).

10.4.17