we must carve a consensus


The Seekers gathered on the shore
of Providence River.
Canonicus (Indian giver)
steered them to festal hearth, & more.

Warm wholeness, understood by all.
We must carve a consensus
like log canoe, he says.
All flows from Manitou – not full

of vanity & pride, but like
a farmer in disguise –
gentle kenosis-
metamorphosis (Nokomis Lake).

The raging trickster flings flaming
orange bars into stream
burnt like a furnace-dream –
a grasping Minotaur, defaming

Imogen... moon-shadow (of the sun
of Man).  Eurydice,
Psyche...  Clover’s Henri,
en camouflage (homespun)...

Light on the river frames a simple
cloverleaf of spring.
Fond Pocahontas-swing
where fern unfurls (from ample

fiddlehead to wavy palm).
Whisper me back to you,
Morning.  The crown’s U-
turn rivets an oak bee-hum.



the ordinary Union

                 Eternity, O Eternity! That is our business.
                                                       – Roger Williams

She watches crows play in the sky
above her balcony.
Her dregs of memory
transmute to gaiety, give death the lie.

Cautantowwit was Raven-Lord
of Narragansetts.  Old
Canonicus told
Roger how dead souls were borne toward

Mexico, far off southwest...
Rog quilled it down.
That chief of great renown
was kind to him.  Knit wool is best

around head, limbs & heart
when winter ice descends.
I’m dreaming, friends.
One campfire (circling) is all my art.

The Red Wing river-clay is heavy,
as my mother knows.
O the harsh blows
that fall like thunder (Romeo, Julie)...

The body’s weight is catenary
Golden Gate (so
Jasper shows).  Blow,
Manitou... bring back the glory

of the ordinary Union.  It shall be
– when we return to Thee,
from sea to shining sea
uncommon good (benevolent Eternity).



11 million light-years from Rhode Island


They’ve found another habitable planet
just in time for Thanksgiving –
around Ross 128, winking
only 11 million light-

years from Rhode Island (quiet
little red dwarf, dreaming
on its milky way).  Wing
me back to Pilgrim days... what

legend for a habitable continent
will do, now that we seem
to have gone off the beam
as human beings?  Erect a tent

for native & for refugee?
Bring in the gratitude
we understand is owed?
Who will say grace for grace?  Who, me?

The source of wonder is a mystery.
Great Rio del Espiritu
begins as wellspring too –
the stream itself is but a simile

for that invisible soul-smile
we sense, walking along
(like an unearthly song
or ghost of melody).  That aisle

of poplars on a shoreline trail...
the morris dance we trod
beneath your dome of gold
sunlight, O angel of Emanu-El...


– as when Natasha’s limping stride
befriended one forlorn
poet.  Teacher, librarian...
Philology’s sweet sister-bride...

a soul-companion, by your side.
Flowers are immortal,
& tomorrow... is for all –
Love’s welling fountain will abide.

Autumn is in the air.  Ides
of November, by the iron
Eads Bridge.  Low sun,
harsh crows.  Temperature slides.

That legend of Thanksgiving Day
(tables for everyone,
Pilgrim & Indian)
echoes via dream-song roundelay –

Henry, Hobo – Hart, John Berryman –
Dante, at Ravenn –
Black Elk, Martin...
reeling in Psyche-Restoration;

bright Rhodos-Imogen of Liberty
harbored in moss-green
robes of copper sheen;
the rippling well of Lincoln penny

radiating hopeful trust (humility).
An arc out of river water
sparkles like dancing laughter –
morning dew splashing basilica (for free).



matrix of the capital


Charles L’Enfant painted a watercolor
panorama, 14 inches
by 7 feet long, which shows
the Continental Army by the Hudson River

at Verplanck’s Point (1782).
Its curator (Phil Mead)
once noticed what appeared
to be a mini-tepee notched in view –

looking vaguely familiar...
why?  That very canvas
tent (George Washington’s)
was standing in a nearby corner

of his own museum.  From tiny sketches
mighty plants may grow –
L’Enfant would later sow
the plans for D.C.’s marble stretches

(George’s tent of meeting thus
the matrix of the capital).
We are all infants, after all.
Whence comes this rolling wondrous

theatre in the round?  Each regiment
on the accompanying chart
plays its own part –
a seahorse anchor figuring Rhode Island

(Providence for African, Native 
American recruits).
Even Okean has roots –
one sign given, that we might live


like Jonah (which means turtledove)
descending, by enormous
& galactic routes
from lambent & egalitarian beehive

on high – the very cosmopolitan
& chaste kingdom of God –
chaste, as out of Novgorod
by way of Osip (Mandelstamian)...

Each local soul circles toward Providence
as moth toward firelight.
Only fly right
into the center of her blazing salience –

you’ll see the laws of city & country
meld to conformity
with that great mutuality
Martin proclaimed – God’s wakan charity.


This lonely river-path of Hobo
down the sky’s time-lapse
touches a key, perhaps.
His mother’s clay is rolling, so;

out of that gray whale’s brow of sadness
flows a solidarity
escried by Raven – see?
Au mer... À Mère I caw (southwest,

southwest)... Cautantowwit, or Noah’s
pilot, feeding crumbs...
deep distant drums
of Thunderbird.  Silence (Cahokia’s).



evening of the year


November is the evening of the year.
Peasants in Bruegel scenes,
old Hobo has-beens
cluster by each barnyard bonfire.

Smells of farm & mill & stream,
the salt of drying fish.
Legends of Gilgamesh,
Leviathan.  Earth’s drowsy dream

wherein these van der Weyden faces
peer, like wildflowers
(like elemental creatures).
Matrix of sky & sea places,

of perishable limestone prints
from whence a soul emerges
smiling... Demiurge’s
horsehair, flickering (Francesca’s hints).

Medieval bread & wine of things.
Cascade of bridges over
other bridges – river
washing under massive rings.

The solidarity of timebound
beasts, breathing together
under whip, rein, tether.
Muddy, between Arch & Mound

looms... pregnant with Spiritu.
What Piero knew,
Bruegel & Jasper too –
shade-palm, surrounding you


& me – stretching toward Pacific blue.
I layer watercolors so,
over crepuscular canoe
hid in Italian garage (one almond clue).

The limestone waterfalls in Rimini
like tears across a scallop-
sign.  The curtains drop,
the veil gives way... a human unity

of suffering is all our play.
Da Vinci, with tired hand
limns one command –
love one another, every day.

For we are one.  A multitude,
personified.  Benevolent
Ancient of Days bent
each into the mirror’s flood,

together – riverflow of heart-
veins from the earth
welling to fiery hearth –
lenticular sunset, plangent cloud-art.

So spinning from primordial rose
the golden maize of Chartres
guides you to its Artist...
Daedalus, not Minotaur; Grace

Ravlin, not some puppet-master
in the Kremlin.  Shadow
of Mona Lisa grin... you
rise before the fall (Easter).



hurrah for the green black & blue


Early cold air makes light more clear
toward Veteran’s Day.
Only whisper a ray
through the Mexican mirror, my hero (here

& now).  Who gave a last full measure
to the metronome of fate –
her solemn bell drones late
over these midnight hexagons (white hair

of graves).  Whisper it back to me,
quietly, quietly.  Dark
wake of Noah’s Cutty Sark,
trailing to Southern Cross, Black Sea.

Your raven circles to the end of speech.
These crumbs will be enough.
Twin shoulders lift the rough
yoke – walk a path to Ocean Beach.

A stone like diamond lost in Voronezh –
gray pebble, agate
hidden in the gate...
forged fate of Man as Uncle George

the Unknown Soldier... gardener
outside her smithy-cave,
their humus-world to save.
Come in.  These stones weather

Siberian winter – like Finnish sauna
finished in Hyperborea;
out of Lake Victoria
or Sydney, Australia (hurrah


for the green black & blue)... faint echo
out of Mexico,
where all the monarchs go.
The earth will be redeemed... but very slow.

Up the street from your view of heaven
in another neighborhood
hearts hard for good
pitch darkness toward Pacific Union –

money grooves & spectral hates
congeal in orange ogre-
hats... scared morgue-
hacks... guile of guppy hypocrites...

All politics is local, sez.
In Minneapolis
black is really less
skin in the game (the realtor biz);

up at the lake, the fishermen
cash in their walleyes;
hunters in disguise
carry the venison for Uncle Ben

(Rice Lake).  The joker’s going wild.
He’s up by White Bear –
FBI got there?
Over near Mound – which bullets?  Piled?

Dream songs must leave behind the fear,
greed, hate.  Earth clay is one,
& Manitou is
done (for today).  Help with the bier?



in the grave of the Griffin Warrior


A stone in the grave of the Griffin Warrior.
Lowly agate (rough
exterior).  What
unknown soldier, pebble on the shore

flung from what Cretan Argo-prow
lay crypted here?
His name’s no more.
Near-sighted magnifying glasses show

how microscopic serpent-threads
wound round the pommel
of a vanquished blade – whorl-
vortex of a maze from Hell (where heads

will roll).  The Minotaur is in
will see you now.  He’s you.
A stone makes hearty stew,
you know (a wilderness of sin).

The kilty boys are losers here,
for once – the codpiece wins,
his dagger thrusting in... so
war defines its atmosphere.

The agate labyrinth congeals,
like threads of matière
Bretagne.  Lodged somewhere
in the brain – with royal seals

& white election... Hamlet’s pause
(like Abraham’s)... the sword
held back by muttered word
to brand an emerald chimp’s impasse


with emblems of a lost accord.
‘Tis way of the world, alas –
each fence a sacrifice
for peace (a chain-link, scored

for Queequeg scar).  That little cap
of Mithras-happiness...
that victor’s haughty prance
over the bleeding bull (himself, mayhap)...

As if an intricate expensive ship
– Mayflower? Monitor? –
long-sunk to Black Sea floor
drifted to shore.  The salty lip

of Ocean whispered her afloat again.
The Norway of the year
gave way to Danish cheer
when Hamlet’s amulet (against the grain)

pressed echoes of a gentle man
into the oaken captain’s
table (so that crimson
icon sped a providential plan).

Ah, Psyche, lift your agate lamp!
& Ariadne, thread
my path... open the dead
tomb for your spider-tramp!

There is an agon for the soul
of man – relinquish force
or buy it with remorse.
You choose.  Sweep, safety net; seas, roll.



restoration will abolish dice


The calm oval of the bridge
floats in the stream
like bubble on a beam.
A fringe of green trees edge

the shoreline... memory of summer.
Water seeks its own
level.  Every stone
melts in its riverbed.  Your humor,

Hobo, settles into Ocean State
as silky Mississippi
seeps into the mighty
estuary of the Gulf (trompette

marine).  So your melodious
escapism is salted too,
with fire – there ain’t no
place that doesn’t see you, Mose.

Cradle him in your coracle
of creamy wisdom, Sophie –
let light from a tree
of galaxies be his menorah (Huck,

that is – Huck Finn).  Your soaring
arc (beside Cahokia)
hovers, a stealth utopia –
eagle-prong, heat-seeking

beak from heaven.  Like that rapt
golden raptor, diving
on rainbow wing
toward his vanishing point


(infinity) which Joachim (mulish
Franciscan hermit)
signed, Age of the Spirit...
Fusion of molten phoenix, starfish

turtledove... risen to dance
lightfooted on the grave
of death (one palm-wave
soothes her brow-circumference).

Only leave him his primitive wood-burnt
etching from Rhode Island.
Someone might understand
its clambit rhythm somehow – learnt

by beachcomber, drifted to sound
of sea-wash... steady laving
for pain... life-saving
Island Rose (from rocky ground).

The Word sings out of rosy shell chambers,
complex inflected folds,
ineffable.  She breaks molds
by clash of scalloping tambours –

beams smiling splendor in a glance;
beholds the Earth, clipped
into chains, gripped
by small potentates (from Bossy Manse)...

My hobo-map of Paradise
includes Newport (Jackie
& Jack wed, merrily);
my restoration will abolish dice.



Who killed Robin Redbreast?


Already the first snow saunters down
at dusk (All Saints’ Day).
Robins nibble cherry
crabapples; waxwings are flown.

Some gray squirrel (squirreled away
in Book Depository?)
broke the back of Sophie’s
jack o’lantern... strange display

splayed into Dia de los Muertes.
So Jeff the Fireman
crossed into a bar (man
overboard).  Barranca... Beatrice...

man who went to live with Indians.
Ghost dance, compadre;
Dennis Banks (hey ey
yo).  Eagle feathers in the grandstands

quoting LBJ, ironically (“treaties”).
Home, home on the range
(small fry).  My ange
d’or – in the abyss, like Cassiopeia’s

fireball.  Wax melted in the wings.
Hamlet, his father’s vortex
seal – lay off that, Tex.
Untouchable guitar strings

(hellhound on my trail).  The man’s
in jail.  A thin blue line
separates the whisper mine
from outer darkness (someone plans


ahead ahead).  Pumpkin or Trumpkin,
orange oak bolete...
mushroom cloud.  Yeti...
this is the forest primeval (again).

American robins gather by the fire.
In the Bruegel scene –
where the old women
stoke the blaze with bones (ire

smoke-signals, from Columba).
Globilized indifference
in a culture of comforts
soap bubbles... insubstantial... ah

King of Pumpkins!  How the wax melts!
My soul leans inward
toward your abject & absurd
reward, Coatlicue – so many wolf pelts!

In the bright snow of Siberia
the cold blue fire burns
through bronze lids.  Eyes
turn in your direction...  Selah,

my friend.  La vida es sueño.
Poetry = transcript.
Out of the drowsy crypt
she glances, see... muy bueno.

The double doves of the peacock dome
resolve the red & blue
to violet... so you
are Hagia Sophia (hippodrome).