Morning to Evening Star

CIRCLE LAKE

Blindly, Hobo inches toward

the Keys.  In Florida.

Toward the delta,

in Louisiana.  His handy old

eye-in-hand in hand (light

portable fire-drill).

Ply all your skill,

Hobo.  Hi huraru ra’a,

Hi awari ra’a.  A muddy ray

from cold Atlantic

like some frantic

foundering Santa Maria

threads yarns toward that western

Garden of Evening Star.

Across his eyelid, sure –

like Sire Henry, in his baby coffin

(six weeks encrypted with Guillain-Barré).

Hi huraru ra’a,

Hi awari ra’a.

Autumn leaves of disenchanted

authors, sighing in their libraries...

(the Roger Williams version,

for piano).  Dispersion

through each mental prison (Henry’s,

yours).  Dread of ocean void

spirals up from deep

Le-Hev-Hev keep –

Coatlicue (the cut-up) is annoyed

                    *

& threatens Everyman – her sheep

is black & bloody red!

– Nana, you might be dead

before you know it.  Go to sleep.

The dream song reconfigures all

within its top-spin

in your heart-garden.

Your father was a gentleman narwhal;

your son was dancing on the shore

of Circle Lake, in Midway

Mirror-Land (in Galilee).

The crucifixion of the Evening Star

will not unveil her night-reality.

Observe this family

photograph, Henry.

Miss Padgett’s ancient book quarry –

the massive double-panes of glass,

a mandorla for owlish

Actaeons (Horus,

searching for Columbia?  Atlas,

looking for the moon?)  Nana,

dancing Sophie calls me.

Grandpa.  Hiawatha

had a friend, Hart Ibis Artemis – yah...

yawning from the deep, Jonah.

You must become the dove

still dancing, love –

spun from the heart of things.  Selah.

11.30.18

bleak side of oblique

THREAD SHADOW

The long flat barge, the tugboat

pushing a pile of dirt

upstream – the delicate

reddenings of autumn trees... what

was Henry saying? – up Big Muddy...

Onshore, the back of Hobo

bent like wheedling oboe.

Imago of male failure (Osage hey ey

yo).  Autumn moon... they smoke

& dawdle out the sunshine.

She was a figurehead of mine,

Miss Posy; felled with a single stroke

(of either oar).  Nobody you’d know.

Besides, was long time ago;

sort of a dream-show.

Some tormented buried Poe-ego (Pogo)

traveling unraveled down Path P.

Nominated Henry

(domestic amity

is key to what-y-call happy).

Something between a rat-mensch

& Minotaur.  All entrailed

with entitlements, failed

fatherhoods... sweats on the bench.

Mercy of a rude stream, somebody

said.  Children of want

want what they, but can’t.

Have.  Le-Hev-Hev, spidery

                 *

black hole of the cannibals...

Only a drawn-in breath,

inhalation of death.

That’s all, folks (snaky nuptials).

Hollywood, Kali-Kali-fornia.

The sacred woodpecker’s

your twin prospector –

gold-digging Theoria, Inc. (wing

of raven feathering from cloud).

It’s a Pacific mist,

mister – a golden twist

on Vertigo, for crying out loud!

Shapes of a familiar otherness...

someone you know.  Her

scent (don’t bother

to ask).  As from the wilderness

of the sea (or out of a bath).

Not Venus, exactly –

not even Aphrodite...

maybe antipodal Sheba,

Queen of the South?  Or maybe Johnnie

of the Ark, or Jeanne,

or Mary Magdalen...

under cedars of Lebanon (selah).

Sometimes you see a faint rainbow

on concrete sidewalk.

& someday somebody will talk

to you (smiling wave thread shadow).

10.8.17