still life life still

STANDARD MODEL

So summer, Susanna, slowly, slowly

decelerates, among the weeds

& celery, the radish seeds.

&, painted into a corner, quietly

arrives full stop.  Like Peto

still life.  Or Adagietto

seeping on the Lido.

Gradually.  More things, Horatio,

than are dreamt of...  Plumb pleroma

if you can, Hobo –

speak what we feel we know,

somehow.  Premonitions (like a

wind-blown pennant toppling

at Little Big Horn).

Do not compare, Son

of the Morning Star (glass tippling);

you are the only one of a kind

Wakan Tanka.  To come

back from the grave... some

stretch, Hermione.  Out of your mind?

The Blue Morpho of Vladimir

eludes his abstract net –

yet he’ll catch a Hazel.

Bet.  Meet your double in a mirror

(is good luck, not bad).  The way

a doubting Peter folds

a king of hearts, & holds

the diamond.  One homing ray

                *

unlocks the elephant casket (gold-

lined interior, with keys

to inside story)

figured by Jonah, Susanna – double

coracles conveying chronicles

to Finland, now, for you.

Finis.  He’s us, too.

With eyes like Mirror Lakes

in Mendelssohn, down Arthur Street

(the once & future thing).

Two heavy charms, making

an up-quark reddish baryon, Snoopy –

hiccups of a Higgs bison, maybe?

Concerns which we cannot

discern at CERN, just yet.

Professor Nyet beside the Neva...

– Knock it off, Nobby.  That Large

Hadron won’t bunt the Standard

Model for 1000 millionths of

a billionth of a second, pard.  No, Sarge.

I was just napping by the meteor,

that’s all.  It rolled away

(under the elements, maybe).

Not Hobo, not Pope... Columbus, neither.

Those deep brown hazel eyes absorb

Persephone-phenomena...

monarchs on milkweed... ah,

she weeps.  Who spans her glistening orb?

7.7.17

all manner of thing

LIGHT RAYS

Old Hobo drowses near the summit

of summer.  He sits

in the midst of his nitwit

desires, like Hobo King; he would not

harm a bug, much less a refugee

– plodding to the ports

with worn-out bags, hurt

babies on their backs... ay me!

Corruption is an empty shell

sans floor beneath.

Dons with shark teeth

bowl cannon balls in hell.

He muses on St. Thomas More

& Maximus, a little more;

Susanna’s chaste amour,

the hanging gardens of the Moor.

Lambs in their locality

taste the long grass

while summers pass,

yielding too much reality;

Hobo sleepwalks with the rest,

absorbed in his dream-

sponge.  Every seam

fans rain from peacock-fest –

an early-bird worm-hunters’ realm

inscaped with infinite

abundant life... articulate

splendor from the milky helm

               *

of Wisdom’s gratified delight.

No beast can overwhelm,

no tyrant flim-flam

microcosmic Man’s birth-right,

intones mild Maximus from his

ascetic prison-cell;

all shall be well,

all manner of thing – from fire-fizz

to salmon-grill, from trumpet-vine

to orange safety-net,

all shall be swell.  Get

you, my child, to the heart of Man –

it is no absence in Creation,

but flutter of a smile;

a wing-beat with no guile,

eyes’ icon of ineffable Person.

Draw near.  Hobo is dreaming now.

Rio del Espiritu...

a river-mystery.

Gazes at figurehead upon a prow.

One climbing from the grave.  Jonah?

Eurydice?  Mary

sleeps in the cemetery –

dreams within a dream.  Selah.

Calm-spinning, like a gyroscope,

the Hobo-King advances

toward the tomb of Lazarus.

Her mandorla... light rays the slope.

7.6.17