upon St. Swithin's Day

MONARCH MILK

‘Tis hot & muggy in the octagon

upon St. Swithin’s Day.

& will it rain?  Say.

St. Emperor Henry’s (Holy Roman)

also, once upon a time.  It’s stifling.

An unreal toad usurps

the garden throne, & burps.

His orange tongue is mean, & trifling;

his fire-red refuge-chair is for a child

who hasn’t come home

in 33 years.  Christendom

conquered the Holy Sepulchre... wild

slaughter & rejoicing on this day,
1099.  But will his Ghost

lift from that gloomy host?

Joachim daubs a fingerpaint contrary

blindly, with bare feet (a cave-fresco

for San Francisco).  & Henry

plots his own obscure & minatory

figure : double wheels.  Of milky glow

& river-clay – Cahokia, North Star.

To turn the Great Year

5 29s... & spin from here

some monarch milk (a little almond to restore).

7.15.19

St. Henry's Day

GRACIE MANSION

Hobo (the Holey Roamin’ Umpire)

waits on a pitch from Sleepy-Eye

Hank.  It is his day.

Home plate always Big Mother Star-

Fish play (a hide-seek curve ball –

Dad’s Scrambled Hamlet).

Around 9 innings yet.

Black diamond in Elkhart... St. Paul

stole bases off that pokey Cobb

(guess – tie).  The Twins

still mirroring last year’s

lost wins.  The ball can wobble

1132 feet per sec – 33 miles

per the union (1099).

Hank Aaron was my man.

Hit the dead aim toss, all smiles –

black pay-dirt (out of Elkhart minors

graveyard).  Rod bloomed,

the whole world boomed –

from Thunder Winnebago Hen (majors,

truly) into found pro (his Red-Eye Land).

Only a game, anyway.

If somebody tries to say

who started it... sweet Joanny Hand

of Gracie Mansion, twirling down

on Monday morning

(twilight grey).  So swing

on, Homer Hank – de day’s yo own.

7.15.17