banquet at the end of time

PUSHKIN MOVE

The banquet at the end of time,

the invitation read –

the living & the dead

to celebrate.  This pantomime

of solemn feasting they perform

beneath cavernous timbers

(burnt resinous embers)

foreshadows that preternatural storm

of joy, tasting our expectation –

when Eli’s empty chair

so hopeful (floating there)

is overflowing with affection

once again.  As we well know,

observes bright Magdalen –

beseeching, in the garden,

gardener (raw moon of woe).

& what it all may mean for Hobo

Hank, lazing out

his salvation-boat

conundrum (Solipsism, ho!)...

Can it be can-do canoe?

If anyone thinks they

know anything (See

St. Paul!) they’re in Pig’s Eye

sez he.  My inconsequence

is like a Pushkin move;

chess is like love,

government... clear as Providence.

9.16.18

paradise thirteen

ELEVATOR MATRIX

An eagle gliding motionless

& swift under the rain...

a message from the sun

outside my window.  Inverness

beyond the clouds, it says.  Dauntless

Dante beheld a double wheel

like Charlie’s Wain, meal-

sifting Hamlet’s dead-end eddies

into Ariadne’s crown of yellow

maize (Paradiso XIII)

at the center of the sun;

Dominican, Franciscan, we shall go

along with Beatrice too,

into that Minneapolis

where incognito Jesus

is a twin St. Paul (aboard canoe);

from White Bear Lake to Resurrection

Cemetery, we’ll unbury

Berryman & Mary

Magdalen right now – a Raven

intersection at Jonah & 4th,

a Jubilee bird-fest

out of the cosmic nest.

Jerusalem is raying mirth

from every corner of the universe;

the gray hide of a mule

hides one God-Jewel –

gold-sprinkled fiery agate-cosmos

      *

spiraling like fingerprint

of Everywoman, every

man.  The ordinary

ferris wheel begins to glint

with light most cosmopolitan –

green emerald of soul

freedom (personal

live-oak of Okeanos – constellation

of the Showy Lady’s-Slipper).

Be careful how you tread

this living woods of dead

leaves, sprouting crocuses – your

difficulties are not partisan,

your cures are neither red

nor blue.  The crownèd head

of King George, or the plowman

trampled underfoot by Mammon,

or the young stranger, mortally

undone by poverty,

her kids tossed into pauper’s prison

by our favorite mythologies...

we’ll mingle in the great

grain elevator matrix,

where the brightest of celebrities

& most anonymous of soldiers

meet.  Before the stars fall

through the vortex – Love

wingspans our last full measures.

4.18.17

One golden witchetty grub

Once again, I countermand my own resolution... the urge to share is hard to resist.

FINAL ACT

They’ve found a fracture in the stone

unnoticed before.

The Holy Sepulchre

is buckling beneath the weight of its own

chapel.  & the confessions have

at last made common vow –

the alpha & omega

of restorations.  Centuries of

soot from votive candles must

be wiped clean; the vault

shored with titanium bolts

& stabilizing mortar, all the dust

blown free – for a strange energy

is here.  The Holy One

has set his seal upon

Jerusalem – the seal of a kiss (hey

ey yo).  Blind King Oedipus

is pharmakon – both

curse & cure; an oath

of the Aranda limns a sacred circus

for the Origin beyond hunger

& prey.  Man is both Man

& Grub; one handspan

joins them, sacred totem-pair

distinct without division, separation

or confusion.  Would

you return to the Wood

where, riven-branching, all began?

                      *

All the world’s a stage.  The Totem

glimmers in earth-cavern

like a mémoire of perfection;

handprint of omni-profundum,

quiet & invisible as wind.

The hand carves a circle

over gray sea, pearl

of adamantine quiddity – your mind

& heart, your soul, my wounded Psyche.

What will they find then,

beneath the slab?  One

golden Witchetty Grub?  One Nike,

linen, soiled by jogging Time?

I think they might unveil

a lost fresco – pale

replica (by Piero) of the same

design that, through the Ice Age,

lifts the crocus.  Stubborn,

indomitable baton,

both crozier & calumet – rage

will not overwhelm your calm beauty.

I think of Late Romances

revolving into dances

all around the Globe... O, we

have not yet seen the final act!

Ineffable victory

of meekness... it shall be,

because it is, always.  O blooming Fact!

6.26.16

Of Marcel Proust, of Oblomov

TEEMING ORBIT

In the old octagonal gazebo

shaded from sunrays

screened from mosquitoes

I think of Marcel Proust, of Oblomov;

of the haze of tranquil summers

in an equilibrium

of nature.  Let it come.

The books fade into memoirs,

epics filigree life’s borders

with remote heroics

while the housecat licks

his fur, & children play recorders.

To live life on the edge

of the petunia patch.

To bandage every scratch,

wipe every tear...  sea-azure pledge!

Noah’s flute-compass – a pilot’s

Providence – the homing

pigeon’s purple ring

of ocarina nostos-pivots...

Deep down in the teeming orbit

of the clay, a blessed

favor lifts each nested

creature into intricate

brush-feathered limestone – emerald

fresco, where white-

haired eagles congregate –

floresce into the parchment (gold).

5.18.16