Thursday, November 7, 2013



Slow down, slow down, look into
the golden eyes and crystal skulls of your soul.
No frenetic redshift, or the blue end of the spectrum
will think you’re stealing its thunder, stepping on its Texas toes.
Blue is an asp. Red is a king cobra that passes like a river
into the grass, but you know it’s there,
and you walk tentatively and you walk slow.

As if you’d just made a truce with
cause and effect, one and zero, or the hydro lines
up at Fernleigh buzzing in the rain where
they crossed the lake with no other music than this
hiss, on a musical stave on which no birds sang
like one of the signs of the last days in ibn Attar’s
twelfth century way of looking at things.

That’s a topic worthy of longer wavelengths
of thought, but we won’t go there until we hear
what the doctor says Friday after high noon
like a Gary Cooper movie walking out
into the bleak, bleached street of the sunshine. Draw.
Pow. Pow. Two tumours with one shot. I think I counted wrong.
Gave them names the other night. Scream and Silence.
Kids of my own. I’ll do my best to treat them right.
Gives a kind of classy ring to their names don’t you think?
Demonic personic psychodynamics of the mind
embodied like Romulus and Remus at the founding of Rome.
How many eagles is it going to take this time?

Two gods on earth, confusion in heaven, and a house
or a skull divided against itself like the cotyledon
of a scarlet runner cannot stand. But nobody
told the seeds that as they climb toward heaven
on their own flames up the axis mundi of the world.
Three poles of triune identity, more like a small fire
that’s catching on its own way, than an auto de fe
that’s going to bring my urn of ashes to heel,
o yes, o yes, but I’m going to keep my spurs on
like Aldebaran and Antares and Betelgeuse.
I’m a three spurred cowboy because I don’t want
to leave my third eye out of this, and every star in the sky
deserves its own eye, like children growing up
deserve a bedroom of their own. A place to run and hide.

Be alone with the Alone. As Plotinus called it.
Crazy mystic. Took himself way too seriously.
But then, again, he had to for the longest time
like a mainspring in an alarm clock until
he hatched it like a koan with a hot red egg
in its mouth. A musket shot. Anachronistic worlds in collision.
Not taking a meteor shower like a combination in the corner
looking for an extinction event among the right crosses.
But Scream and Silence seem to be getting along
with each other these days. Maybe I’ll hire a baby-sitter.

Go play for awhile. Too many farewells in these fingertips
that have been touching the world for the last time
to see how that feels, though I fear these dress rehearsals
like trampled grapes fear rumours of wine laced
with mushrooms like the moons of the Eleusinian Mysteries
on the edge of the wheat flood of Dionysus
dropping tiny spores of ergot in your drinks,
and out of control stampedes that trash your mind,
or the King of the Waxing Year fears body parts,
or Monsanto genetically modifies the crops.
Wonder what the moon thinks of that? And the almonds
and the bees? They must be freaked out by now.


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