her quantum realm

FLIGHT-PATTERN

Hobo retreats to his park bench

on the riverbank... who

he?  The other half of you –

half-man, insufficient mensch

acquainted with the missing hole

of all deracinated souls.

The fever-men, the moles

in Washington... hungry for the dole

of glitz & lucre, hypocritical revenge

for Cain (vain little men

seeking glory in ruin).

Like a swift & mauvais rêve-songe

baseless as those trumped-up towers

Hobo trips his execrable

ghost-dance parable –

a travesty, to fill last hours

verily unto their scarlet brim.

He sees her, off in the distance

beyond the iron bridge.  Trance-

vision of that Liberty (Wisdom)

triumphant in her harbor... crown

upon her brow, torch lifted

overhead, arm hugging tablet

of the law.  Her quantum realm (unknown

Coatliqubits of soul-restoration)

rotates the clay wheel

on its Gateway oracle –

fright transformed into flight-pattern.

10.24.19

narrow waist of driftwood

SPINDLY FENCE

Summer fading into gray skullcap.

Henry with his brass trombone

& Hobo his hypnotic loon

shore up the railroad tracks with sap

of clammy shellfish scree (Rhode Island

sound).  My Providence,

your looming salience;

lines on a brow dwindled by sand

down a narrow waist of driftwood

sundial.  Stentorian

Henry, like a milk train

wreck, bundles through the neighborhood...

but it shall not be so with you.

Glance of dark green

(like black-eyed Susan)

measuring its circuit-wheel of blue

& blazing gold.  Iris of promise

under one lead sentence

(autumn rain).  A spindly

fence holds back the dunes for this,

my gift of dried-up horseshoe crab –

like a seahorse Pegasus

planted on Cain’s verses

(Falcon-Ace, clipped in rehab).

I’m only whispering to you.

From now on, friend,

faithful to the end –

where love is borne (rosemary, rue).

9.9.19

down by the River Road

Mpls. Star-Tribune, spring 1957

ALTER EGO

Hobo, out there in the wind & the rain

like a shattered King Lear.

An old-fashioned father.

Harmonica squeals – like brakes on a train.

Looks up toward the ridge, where Henry

mimes King of the Oak.

The Knot-King (royal joke).

Spidery threads cross buffoonery

with tacky mute muttering...

clay Eye-in-Hand

from Coatlicue-land.

Anne Boleyn territory (stuttering

terror).  He’s your 8th alter ego

this month, moony Earth –

been angry since birth.

Tsk, tsk.  Some boor’s addled Eddie, yo.

Divided-dividing, fibrillated

fibber... earthquake

salaud in pancake

make-up.  Henry?  Must be related.

Brothers, battling in his head

since Cain was able to kill –

equilibrium still

left out of the equation, love.  Sad!

There’s a buried man on the other side,

sire (near Pig’s Eye).  Emerald

green, her leaves unfold.

Big Muddy catfish will abide.

11.17.18

like variations on a theme

FIRST SNOW

It was a first snow falling on your birthday, Alex

38 years ago.

Cesca’s labor so slow

& painful, there in Miriam Obstetrics

under the klieg lights & the surgeons

she took the C-section

at last (proud, stubborn

mother) while the soft newborn

stars sloped across the parking lot

in silent counterpoint.

The time was out of joint –

your father, too.  Every hamlet

screens its circular pilot plot

through every heart;

Henry left his hearth

to wander Cain-like into Camelot

(his Ars, his land of Nod).

The story is familiar.

Eros sparks war

for Adams unwilling to plow the meek sod,

buster.  Adonis was a narcissist.

Henry plucked his Clover

(tuneful Faustian lover)

& spun the wheel no heel resists –

the veils of Isis & Osiris (masonry,

mummified fire).

Venus, Morning Star

shone pallidly, across the whole country

                  *

a kind of Cairo-Poe magnet (wherever

you are).  Middle C

on the piano, tenderly

(Ravlin Princess, Ravel).  Life-saver

played out to Juliet, by Hart.

Like Bach, young Alex –

one sea-tempest X

along path P (where all the tempers start).

Grief comes in waves.  These little ripples

echo from the pangs

of Providence (where swings

a cosmic jewelry show).  Dilated pupils

merge in swarms of busy drones

(watch-birds for smoke-

signals).  Go for broke,

the Iago of the capital intones.

Unleash the dogs of war.  They hated

me without a cause...

Faust is no Santa Claus;

the raging boar will not be sated

‘til the last woman on earth

flees with her child

into that desert wild

nursing one lonely human birth.

11.14.18