under the sign of the Virgin

WRITING HAND

Herod the Great is out hunting tonight

to make himself great again.

History, all over.  Hen

clucks in pigpen.  Overhead, bright

Star of Stars yet hovers (esoteric,

weightless).  Invisible world

of worlds to come – squirreled

away in a barn (near Bethlehem, Pa).

Maximus, transfixed by history,

his writing hand severed,

still corresponded

with his nephew (far end of Black Sea).

Hen’s fishing for sense, like Hobo

the limp lamprey (curled

on the riverbank).  Churl?

Fisher King?  Overhead – Virgo.

Not the Twins, but something like.

Twin sitters.  Throned

drones, long retired

from hive (72 bricks of...).

Not trying to be obscure here,

that f’sure.  Innocence

dances through the universe

unfathomed on our faithless sphere.

On her Milky Way.  Here Grace Ravlin

sketches a summer evening

at Mt. Vernon – fingering

the treasure map (Pennsylvanian)

                  *

tracing a quiet constellation

echoed on the ground.

Her wisdom is profound

through purity.  Just perfection

mirrored in frame of Providence;

sunlit warmth of hearth

stirring Pig’s Eye from death

to life (St. Paul to Minneapolis).

The artist makes an eye with fingertips

at edge of scabbard.

Ariadne-thread.

Clue to labyrinth.  Slips

into Gloucester (blind man’s buff)

to paint twin boats

nestled in soft coats

of emerald.  Grace is enough.

Ceres, under Sirius... sparrows,

hysterica passio...

madness of Angelo

or any other tyrannos

threatening an alien child

(warped in labyrinth

of jealousy).  Absinthe,

minted at Fort Knox – wild

wrath of slighted boar (the king’s

own Fury).  Here’s the church,

here’s the steeple – open

the door... (where the sea-choir sings).

12.28.18

Grace Ravlin, Overlooking George Washington's Garden, 1922

wee bauble of Providence

MANGY TRUTH

Mark Twain, pilot, plummets

to the river-depths.

Hobo-poet steps

Twin Cities morris-dance (let’s

follow him).  The deep dive

of the mystery of each

child – landed on a beach

in Egypt, or in Bethlehem (I’ve

got a certain kid in mind).  Already

requiem in Alexandria

(the library).  Memento mori.

Osiris?  Full of bookworms, Henry.

A Master Mason?  Hire ‘im.

11.32 ft/sec...

– wait a sec – ham

radio?  In RI?  The signal’s dim.

Garfield died 23.5 degrees

off Library pedestal.

So we meet the eternal –

a starry Book Depository (seas

rising... queasy feeling) charms

the assassin into travesty

(sick temper, see).

O westward course of life’s alarms!

I don’t know where we’re going, Hobo

Henry wails.  An infant

Providence is born.  Want

mangy truth?  Frail monarch is a rainbow.

12.24.18

a baby year

POLAR NIGHT

                               for Chris Kraemer

Begins, a baby year.  Crawls out,

survivor, bearded with ice.

Minnehaha Falls

not (b-flat, sustained).  Hobo is stout

now as Shostakovich – repairs

the floppy mosquito screen

on vacant gazebo.  Seen

more mangy homes, the bum declares.

Remembers that other Epiphany

50 years before...

with Chris the carpenter

in Soho, & Ernst Neizvestny –

three rootless cosmopolitans

christening his studio

with vodka – dla vashego

zdarovya!  Hunched on some Titan’s

crucifix of railroad ties

laid out across the floor.

Moira’s “Mask of Sorrow”

on the eastern wall (king-size

Golgotha-face, Vladivostok).

Troy’s brother Gabe

there, too – my chemo sabe

trying to toot the sunshine back

with his brass headpiece (soldered

to holey, breathy crown).

Fenced about with unknown

renown, we are, Hobo purred –

                     *

doddered.  The thatch be windblown.

The star be nowhere

to be seen.  The Minotaur

harried our return – he was like a stone

blocking all the arteries, squeezing

the flowers.  So we sang Kaddish

for the kids, in plain English –

scrannel our pennywhistles, wheezing

Pipestone smoke... remember now?

Down by Little Crow’s tent.

Where Thunderbird bent

his twisted contrails, laid so low.

St. Paul tied up in a Christmas bow

the whole Fort Snelling crew –

neat.  & they’ll forgive you, too,

Minneapolis – just let them Gypsies go.

Morning Star & Evening Star

are twins, brother & sister.

The planet limps... her

black burn-scars all covered are

in tender hexagoons of fleecy

tinder.  Let us pray.

One black-yellow butterfly

sleeps in gray winter crèche – she

furls her wispy shroud tight, tight.

The Minotaur has dropped

his cup.  It rolls... it stopped.

One pearl winks out of polar night.

1.3.17

Dark backward & abysm of time

RUSTIC HAY

Like a Prince Hal of the Iron Age,

surrounded by a full staff

of devices (every gaffe

in the book) Henry took a page

from Stealing Drums in Trinidad

as they slubbered through the murk

of a flood plain, like turkeys

in a hurricane.  It was that bad.

Had to go, blind fool, from Addis Ababa

to Babylon – from Lake Tana

to Concrete Cavern (ah,

Bull-Dance of Hummy Blah-Blah!)

& recapitulate his fancy

infancy – in a shed

built of old dry blood

& scarecrow straw, with Nancy

the Cow & Her Yodeling Shepherds

making rustic hay.

He lived a year & a day

on all fours – eating grass, curds

& whey, locusts, honey, in a swamp

by the Jordan, in Judea...

It’s all there, Maria –

in Miriam’s mandorla (under the lamp).

Henry wandered thus through drowsy realm

plucking mandolin...

one silver star over dark green pine,

one cirque of gold at the Argo helm.

4.19.16 

"Nef" is a word for boat with no "r" in it. (I also like barkentine.) A nef was also a technical term for a miniature boat which was placed in the center of the medieval king's or queen's table to hold napkins & such. In Breugel's great Epiphany painting, Melchior, the African wise man, is handing baby Jesus a green jewel-nef, with a tiny monkey peeking out of the cabin. Almost all the goofy onlookers are staring, not at Jesus, but at the nef.