if I walk through this wormhole


If I walk with Hobo through this wormhole
at the bottom of a zigzag
Mississippi... will I see Cesca Tag
again, when we were young (my soul)?

In Providence?  Et tu, S2?
Picketing the perimeter
of Sagittarius A*,
noting that gravitational tug, you

sense her there, the ghost star...
back of an ecce-crypt
time-vacancy you slipped
through (holeworm, treacherous sailor).

Lean music of the sunflower.
Tall spirit loyal to the sky.
Your gravity a steel gateway,
oar-eye – florescing tacit power.

So this gold Einstein-Rosen bridge
domed by the Milky Way
shines like a lighthouse ray
into a monarch’s heart.  You wedge

there, anxiously, between her wings,
like the child in the blindfold
when a Black Ship sailed...
til tenderly his midnight origami brings

enfoldment to the nth dimension;
Liberty her royal seal
in beeswax, breathing... feel,
Hamlet, soft sunlight’s restoration!



perhaps we are Hagia Sophia


Down by Mirror Lakes, in Mendelssohn
Henry collects the silver
trading cards of a younger
self.  Still innocent (the future Hobo-man).

In that Providence springtime,
when we were setting out.
Pure Japanese note
of your own childhood (high chime

of Tokyo folksong).  Your Florentine
round pallor, papery
sheepglow (Butterfly).
Who knew I’d be the priggish Pinkerton

of Rensselaerville epithalamia?
Til that blindfolded boy
waving a Yankee flag (say,
can you see?) – sows stony drama...

Puccini’s on the turntable, at Amiata.
Her spectral Iris-wings
loft LIBERTY (to thee we sing)
unto this microcosm of liublyu stigmata.

Yet, perhaps... we are Hagia Sophia
with a million eyes.
The crucifixion of surprise
curves down, humbled with apatheia

– still time, still time, to turn
from the spent spirit
to that glad esprit
reflecting oui (edging Ravenna urn).



the sense of being right


The sense of being right, said Mandelstam
confronted by the Kremlin
goons.  Gumilev’s vision
of sweet radiance (chaste equilibrium

of morning dew).  The restoration
of all things might not be
some dystopic unreality
but a balancing of earth & heaven –

the way a canoe takes wing downstream
like feathery kayak
or golden bubble-track
across the sky (the Ocean River of your dream).

Kennedy, Jack.  A 4-leaf clover
assassinated every day
along with brother Bobby, &
King, Martin Luther (justice-lover).

A green eye floats, engraved over
the pyramid.  I calibrate
the shifting angles of a late
Atlantis – one heartbroken sky-rover

whose tears will magnify an Iris
in transit, like Venus
(from luxuria to lux
aeternam).  She was born for this –

to be the eye-in-hand of muddy clay
transmitting Jonah to Columbia;
to launch a hallelujah
from Monk’s Mound to D.C. (U.S.A.).



mercurial transit of the Martian sun


Armistice Day.  For all veterans.
For memory of an end
to hostilities.  Promised Land
or Providence... high limbs of the ones

who came before, palms lifted (orans).
From martyrs of brave speech,
whole truth, let us beseech
ineffable blessing.  Alighieri stands

nigh frozen Sant’Apollinaire
trasumanare in Ravenna.
Where mossy Giuliana
calls me from her potter’s lair

(soft aviator from a sunken realm).
Like that Tim Taylor, seeker
at Pacific depth (1132
ft. down... USS Grayback graven on its helm).

Project Lost 52 – to bring to light
every forsaken sheep-canoe
& let them float anew
somewhere divine (mercurial transit

of the Martian sun).  She’s calling me.
Like salt-grain in the war-engine,
a kernel from the Corn Maiden
of Grant Wood haunts... her Grand Marquis

a black blind spot across that gilded orb,
Ferrari Rio Santo Spiritu
she snakes toward you (& you)
from her smile-park (topaz to curb).



Apollinaire lived in Paris, I live in Minneapolis (MN)


A little snow meanders down in Minneapolis
to cold November earth.
Guillaume, prince triste of mirth
was lowered from his balcony in Paris

two days before the Armistice.
Grandpa packed up his guns
one last time, near Verdun.
Spent rulers carpentered their peace.

Sacre du Printemps set the stage.
Russkaia Neva-sacrifice
summons her apotheosis –
leaps for the holocaust of banal rage

mounting to self-consuming poshlost peak.
Apollinaire was there
that night (under the sulfur-
flare, the guttering of Belle Epoque).

Grandpa field-marshaled the parades
on Armistice Day.  Lafayette,
we are here... the old print
over the dinner table (Revolutionary shades

trippin’ la gigue française, at Mt. Vernon).
My ghosts are here now,
in November snow.
The Rio fleuves inexorably on

down to St. Louee, New Orleans.
Jeanne spins with Jessie
to their Stagger Lee...
my snow wheel hums, Rose (oriens).



I dream a general restoration


The early ice on the Mississippi
forms a maze of frozen
eddies, a chaos of cotton-
wood leaves on glass, all dark & ripply.

Somber November drawing on
toward JB’s Janus-mouth.
Slight man, moth-
light, leaf-blown from iron span.

I dream a general Restoration
cousin, cuz.  Because
our love that never was
lies crypted in a deeper congregation

of earthworms... Earth-life...
this pumpkin-celebration
where each seed is someone
like a minuscule canoe (collective

buoyancy, anchored in agape).
Not that Cyclops-utopia
ice-locked with Satana
imperador del doloroso regno, nay!

Rather a contra-dance of Earth
& Sky, a balancing
of stillness with evolving –
clay vase molded into mirth

by humble presence of the king
(of servant-kings).  A single
molecule of brine (NaCl)
is tabernacle bread & wine (of everything)


& you will meet her in the ordinary courtyard
of the everyday (she’s Everywoman-
Everyman).  This is a vision
of figure & ground.  She’s walking toward

you, now... like Roger Williams, stepping through
twin pillars on the Terrace...
Providence, a place
of mercy & discretion (fair & true).

I cannot put it into words, this waltz
of swirling time & high
eternity.  It is the sky
spanning the sea.  It is the salt

in everything; it is the molten dove
dive-bombing into clay
who joins you in a sway
of hurtling dancers (Milky Way

a-sarabanding, up above).  I cannot
put it into words.
The brutal violence
(stone-hearted ignorance) surds in a knot

of self-destruction, planetary waste
& You must turn & repent
cries San Francesco, bent
upon his imitatio Christi (feet laced

with scars).  It is the Via Francigena.
You will walk back to the river
sped with such a pulse... her
springing from the graveyard (Magdalena).



essential graphene histrionics


My biographical Brown Decades tumbled
rapidly by, in Providence.
How simply the silence
of these beseeching trees (autumn

at the Arboretum) speaks to me!
Alex Weinstein, in Mt. Auburn...
stood there with Sandy (Grecian
Urn?  Likely committed it to memory).

He played the violin at 91.
Emigré from Odessa –
fruit-fly research @ Columbia –
loved poetry & science... (thread-thin,

stooped, seraphic gentleman
of Cambridge Mass.) –
& so the fleet years pass,
callow Henry, to Thanksgiving (amen,

amen).  I put my faith in one
contextual canoe –
dry tacit Quaker taboo
against unquestioned superstition;

a sort of Boston Personalism
accepting each whorl
of conscience as the real
sign of some ineffable wisdom –

spring, source, coil, J
spiraling beneath a moon
brighter than cogitation
tonight... in a jumbled chaos of hay


stacked (by osmosis-creation)
across twistronic history
into graphene infinity.
Histrionics of pacemaker nation?

No, kid – it is the equilibrium
of a canoe or gyroscope
emanating (spilling hope)
out of the heart of the Imperium

accosting the Seizer of All Good
with adjusted reciprocity
of infinite mercy –
that normative hearth-neighborhood

established on the everlasting rock
of I & Thou, of eye
& dhou (equality
the ratio of the basic J’nah-Ark).

& so the weird Isis-receptacle
of Mirror-I-Am
fuses in twin-rhyme
with Notre Dame; so the spectacle

of male narcissism becomes unviable
at ordinary crowing
of Rhode Island Red – being,
like palm at the end of the mind, able

to hoot like Owl o’Athena
in the autumn night of
history   (the shadow of love
bending over your cradle)   Ephphatha



the true poem always comes from elsewhere


This is that ancient harvest night.
You bring a refugee inside
– might be an angel of God –
& find participation is the true delight.

The otherness-&-love of God
deflects the local stream
from its own banks.  A dream
intrudes – disturbs each land of Nod.

Bright Dante, growing gaunt & gray
steps into a seashell
– beached, like him, in exile.
Tall haunted shades of Sant’Apollinare

gaze, raining compassion
from wide almond eyes
like springs, like Beatrice’s...
he feels at home.  O prodigal son!

Poema sacra must be reconfigured.
Maximus in prison
by the Black Sea... vision
like shadow of the Argo soared

– an Easter visitant, come dawning
far above Firenze, or
this rusted blue-red frenzy
ferrying Rubicon (Cain-abling)

& you are weeping, you are smiling
far beyond sacrifice,
climbing that hill-face
near Kinneret (life-reconciling).



an ocean swell


This is that ancient harvest night.
Rhode Island harvesting
the sea.  A Newport wedding
(Jacqueline & Jack) at rocky height

(of Sachuest). & as the whale
harvesting the sea as well
is no less an ocean swell,
& Jonah is his pearl – still hale

& whole, alive from deeps of hell –
so Henry might rise again
from his own carapace of sin
(that shimmery-mirror Minotaur-spell).

Hobo-Falstaff lurks beneath a branch
of raven-wood (Cautantowwit,
Caws-too-much-wit).  Stone-set
into the Seeker’s providential avalanche –

one violet for the junk-jewelry state.
The salt air clears his head.
One Spirit wakens all the dead,
he chants – one Dream outshining potentate

& pyramid.  He nurses Henry back to health
like Whitman with his milky muse;
Abe & martyr Martin fuse
into the circle of their commonwealth –

a coracle or ark of Liberty
circumferencing azure shores,
whose acorn-rim Henry restores
to dappled shade (bright almond eye).