sumac muse

AUTUMN SUMAC

The new Solomon will show

a spirit of discernment.

No more time spent

on wastes of shame, Sheba – no.

He might see the Parousia

if he takes care.

His friend Hobo (where’d

he go?) will likely not carouse

far, yah.  He’s by the river,

as per.  Autumn sumac

beads along railroad track.

Dry cotton bones, monsieur.

François might join him there,

under gibbous moon,

Paris monsoon...

cornered at the bridge of the stair.

Amigo Frank – piano soul of Frisco,

tempering tomorrow.

Palming witness so

to stigma of twinship, boy-o.

Thunderbird collects herself

over Red Wing swamps.

Imperial affliction stamps

[available in lobby]. Guelf

to Ghibelline, Dante wit Beatrice...

Moses and Elijah frame

their thorny throne (slim

acmé of suave pillars).  Touché.

9.24.18

banquet at the end of time

PUSHKIN MOVE

The banquet at the end of time,

the invitation read –

the living & the dead

to celebrate.  This pantomime

of solemn feasting they perform

beneath cavernous timbers

(burnt resinous embers)

foreshadows that preternatural storm

of joy, tasting our expectation –

when Eli’s empty chair

so hopeful (floating there)

is overflowing with affection

once again.  As we well know,

observes bright Magdalen –

beseeching, in the garden,

gardener (raw moon of woe).

& what it all may mean for Hobo

Hank, lazing out

his salvation-boat

conundrum (Solipsism, ho!)...

Can it be can-do canoe?

If anyone thinks they

know anything (See

St. Paul!) they’re in Pig’s Eye

sez he.  My inconsequence

is like a Pushkin move;

chess is like love,

government... clear as Providence.

9.16.18

eye in the level

replica of Roger Williams' compass, pocket sundial

SURVEY LINE

The pilgrim in the wilderness

like young George Washington

will draw a survey line

in order to project his progress

straight ahead, from point to point.

Primordial Providence

the paradisal focus –

your pen’s first instance.  Appoint

your 2nd Adam, then, Most High

to be the gold eye

in the level – bead the way

with your Accordion of earth & sky,

dream-song of host & guest alike.

My Christianity

is primitive, really.

This nazir chanting by the lake

was also Elohim; we sponged the vinegary

wine together, soaked

the dry bread – smoked

the peace pipe in his company.

My Providence is primitive as well.

Young Roger at the river’s

edge, his seekers, strivers –

welcomed, welcoming – a lunar shell

for pattern of a little government

upon her shoulder (Ocean

State).  Mirroring Sine

of Wave... rinsing tomorrow’s present.

9.14.18

a glossolalia from grapevine hive

ALMOND SHELL

The gray clouds in the distance, over

the Bruegel panorama.

Coltrane, Alabama.

Hollow octave.  Windblown clover.

In the foreground, a guy named Frank.

Jeff, Joe... somebody

you know, Big Daddy?

No.  Here to clean the sewage tank.

In the garage, a long-unused canoe.

Dry almond shell,

cicada husk.  Well,

things happen.  I loved her, too.

Everything wears out like a garment,

Preacher says.  Love’s

monarch’s in the grove –

dark cedars frame him monument.

Cupped hands perform their wrinkled rite,

a mandorla for Miriam

(her longest night).  I am

your cloud-shape spinning into sight,

I am your turtledove of rose

granite.  A woven smile

gets fuzzy, chile.  Goes

bumbly, succeeding prose;

a glossolalia from grapevine hive

that only Providence

(unleafing salience)

can sail through oven husk – alive.

9.12.18

plastic leaves & bottlecaps

SALTY DEW

This autumn wind-chime Sophie made

like El Anatsui (African

weaver spider-man)

from plastic leaves & bottlecaps, tied

with bright ribbons – a key, a table knife,

a silver keychain ring,

a crystal ball... everything

needful for the voyage into afterlife

(October & November, winter

ice).  I hear it now,

an echo from the prow

of gray stone mothership.  Your

Notre Dame of infinite mercy,

villain François.  Or Chartres,

Hen – where light chartreuse

rhymes with sky-blues, calm sea

of sunset rose.  On the scarred floor

a labyrinthine feedback

loop speeds Argo-carrack

by umbilical thesis to Ari’s door.

Arachne, Ariadne...in Rhode Island?

One subterranean Ocean

Stream, Atlantean

where every son of J sails home again

across Medea’s Méditerranée – &

where Medusa’s stone frown

melts, to gleaming crown

of salty dew... grail of compassion.

9.11.18

goldenrod honeybee

LAMBENT FLUTE

This bumblebee on goldenrod,

hunting the crossroad

at close of summer.  Old

Hobo character – camouflaged

in yellow-black (almost).  Henry’s

obsession with absence.

I’d go the distance

into infinite cornfields, he says.

The river subculture, the dream

of floating back home.

Churnagogue palindrome

or unknown womb... clay baptism.

The cottonwood leaves seem to flow

like golden honey, then –

in Taurida, on the autumn

wind.  Like little heart-ships, so

they swim.  Out of the tight-knit shawl,

out of the everlasting

fire.  None shall be coming

to the Father except by Son, y’all –

by way of Mother.  That absolute

Somebody – a labyrinth

of stars, wherein we are hid

like lightning bugs, or lambent flute

reflections (crane-bone twins).

Flickering far beyond

woodpecker Trebizond,

sleepwalker Knossos – wheeling fins.

8.5.18

political sonnet

LAST WORDS

                                  i.m. Alexander Litvinenko

Some Russian in a London hospital

is losing all his hair, can barely speak.

The doctors are confused.  His liquids leak.

It seems he may not make it, after all.

He slumps his ugly body to the wall.

Polonium-210 is quite unique –

this instrument of power at its peak

reduces fractious elements to nil.

And yet a feeble whisper emanates

from dying lips (all victims are pathetic).

You’re a bona fide barbarian,

he croaks (to Mr. Vladimir Putin).

You’ve proved you don’t deserve the trust

of my beloved Russia.  Last words stick.

Beulah is 90

BEULAH

                       for MRG

Beulah fell asleep this afternoon

in her sidewalk chair.  Phosphor clouds

spun tacked-up overhead – caravels

unknotting archipelagoes of dreams.

Beulah is ninety.  All she’s done

was finished years ago – love, kids,

work... making, helping.  Now the swells

of receding seasons wester into beams

of sundown.  The scramble to survive,

the ferris wheels of sex and politics,

her wrestlings with faith and doubt

are folded into one frail dormant hive

of arms, face, breast.  Fleet prolix

dreams fuse with the Dreaming she’s about.