Saturday, November 9, 2013



I pay more attention to my bodily fluids than I used to.
Woodlore, paint spots, spoor. Learning to read all over
again. What does that mean? Show me an x ray
of my ancestors prophetic skulls’ hidden under the hearthstones
of the firepit I’m being consumed in like a piece of mammoth meat
that once thought it was phoenix in an ice-age.
Is it ready yet? Is it cooked? Spread it around.
Dinner time. May your crops and your colas never get bud rot.

Irish grace. Canadian style. But it’s still got
too many leprechauns in it, though, for my taste.
Ever see a red-tailed hawk wheeling and wheeling,
as if it couldn’t get a cork out of a wine bottle it was
trying to open, when, pop, the job is done, and it slides
down its own bannisters and thermals of air in a stairwell
of mirrors as if it were easier watching your blood
unravel in water because an eddy pulled it by the thread
of a rip cord on your emergency parachute. See
anything yet that looks like the moonrise of a mushroom yet?

And you watch this cinder in the sun’s eye, this crazy
flakey star that shines from the inside out
as if it emerged before Venus, of course it did,
the star doesn’t go on stage before the audience,
startling the soul over the road and the cedar rail fence
past the soft bass wood grove huddled up like refugess
against the border, birds on the powerlines,
trying to touch their mother’s fingertips through
electrical fish nets, you take it from there,
over the darkening hills at the end of the beaver marsh
with a treeline that’s putting too much mascara on.

Must be a young treeline. A whisper, honey, a whisper
of an eclipse, moonset on those eyelids of yours.
It’s a lot harder to seduce somebody with megaphone.
All those black holes. You shouldn’t have any trouble
attracting stars. But look at that hawk up there.
The way it spreads its wings out as if it were
the standard gold measure of the sun glowing down,
(Glowing. Cheap shot like the next rock in a mindstream
I jumping across, but I’ll take the risk.) Down
into an abyss where the Egyptians used to believe
it died and it was up to them with all their canopic jars,
ointments, and urns to make it rise again. Heavy burden.
Bet they were happy to get that calender of gravestones

off their chest. I can only imagine grave-robbing looters
running riot through the streets of New York
like debt collectors when there’s a black out orgy
of burning cars and smashed windows as if
they were beating their girlfriends up for having
such beautiful eyes, with bars and gates. Street orchids
booming in fire once every seven thousand years
and the fire hoses trying so hard to put them out
as if goodness and human decency depended up them
like a loaf of farmhouse bread cooling on an afternoon windowsill.
Of course, it does.As wide from horizon to horizon, as that bird up there,
stretching itself out to infinity so it can touch the sky
with the tips of its flightfeathers to see if he can fly out of it
without having out of necessity of optical misperception
as if the compass needle that runs through its heart like the axis
mundi, (God, I love the Latinate basso profundo of that
it makes me feel so smart I can almost convince myself
I’m thunder for a minute or two.) Ta da. A firefly
hits the transformer. Fireworks for a hawk. Watching it fly
as if there nothing more meaningful in the world than that.

Better stop here. I’m getting carried away. That’s
what a spinal cord’s for. To tug on a kite. Hold on tight.
Ghost of a windsock in an air pocket of the moon,
or anchored in bay with the gleaming fish hook allure
of the feminine principle of the world taking a bath in her own grave
and the merest speck of a hawk running down
out of her eye, the crumb of a dream, the bismallah
and the whole point in the mole on the cheek of what Hafiz longed for
nothing but a starmap of all there is to shining
if you approach it as if you were always on the inside of no way out.


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