IN THE LEFT FRONT PARIETAL LOBE OF MY CRUCIFIXION WINDOW
In the left front parietal lobe of my crucifixion window,
beatifically blue sky letting the slow motion clouds pass as if
they were too white and puffy to be solemn about things,
chilly sunshine casting a neatly cut geometry
of occult hieroglyphs on red brick heritage walls.
Sunday. Free. Blesses its own bells like the left-handed virtue
of a secular day to celebrate a shopping mall.
No mail. No bills. No threatening phone calls.
No answering machine that talks robotically
in the tone of a guillotine in the Reign of Terror.
Good day to write if you’re summoned by other voices
beyond the range of the usual crows who talk
about the dawn of another encore more like roosters than moonbirds
whose feathers turned from white to black
for going as they were told, but never coming back.
Words aren’t a medium for fortune-telling your afterlife.
They’re vital organs of the trees who have no other way
of singing about what they feel from the bottom
of their heartwood up. All lightning and root fires
flashing on the waters of life rippling like tree rings
when a fish jumps like the mind at a low flying insight.
Twenty first century siege mind, brain meat,
soft walnut in a scorched black skull.
I’m dragon-spotting forest fires from a long way off.
I’ve got a computer for a watchtower and a moat
and if I can see any folly in your madness
that passes for the grailquest of a loyal clown
I’ll lower the drawbridge of my lap top
and show you where to stable your horse.
It’s freedom itself to drift like the sport chute
of a dandelion with a flightpath of smoke
away from the thermals of the canyon walls
of an abyss that’s as open and closed as
a tight-lipped door with no expectations of
greeting my alienation like a threshold that means well
and even the silence doesn’t care if you’re listening or not
to every thought that crosses the moon
like a Canada goose that empties the urns of the dead
at midnight, the echo of an ancient pathos in its voice
even on its return journey to pick up
another payload of solitude like a hearse.
There’s no doubt daylight’s kinder to love
than most nights are because there’s less magic
in its prosaic approach to metaphors that only
glow in the dark like the shadows of strangers
in the niches of sacred doorways slightly left ajar
like a black star saving its last ray of enlightenment
before it goes out nirvanically to see better
in the eclipse of the mirror that nothing can be recognized
for what it is until it’s looking through your eyes
as if you didn’t have an identity of your own
but you were still willing to share your absence with them
like a well-thumbed starmap and a telescope
that occasionally weeps to wash the accumulation of stardust
off its lens for clarity’s sake on a seeing-eye night.
Down by the broken phalanxes of the cattails,
their pale ochre almost a shade of moonlight
on the broken lances of an old war gone long in the tooth
like the shell holes of biopic cannoneers sighting their guns
on the British fleet in the harbour of Toulon
and a sea of lunar tranquillity nothing disturbs for long
except the odd wolf nosing around for muskrat,
the willows waltzing with the wind like ladies in waiting
in the most vernal of their ballroom gowns
under the chandeliers of the stars to the music
of a river in passing like a mindstream retreating through time.
Funny what comes to you when you’re dreaming awake
on a late Sunday afternoon in a small town
that’s going on around you like circuitous ants
in the pheromonic labyrinths of the water-logged grass
greening their prospects of pillaging the larvae
of dragonflies that spend most of their lives as nymphs,
hand-picked by the sparrows like krill from the grills
of parked cars beached like baleen whales on hot asphalt.