where the Earth glows –

what of it, these

dark, evolving days that here find Solace

for Repair? Is

there a mishmash potpourri of Sense

and Substance we can Partake

of? All your illustrious demons with

their bored looks and

dead-end deals offer you a price for

your Soul; is it worth it? Can

you bleed through all your portholes as the ship

sinks? What can the

weatherman tell us, Now, now that we lose

our grip

on the slippery Rock? We

are thin Souls unprotected in a harsh wind

hoping

to find those eyes that don't look straight

through Us winding

through traveled routes to find you there

in your reved-up Intention

of fire and ice -- What of

the deafmutes, the sudden Sterility of

a boasting bull? Is

there Reason in

these winding Corridors there where Van Gogh

looks into us

with a kind of shared knowledge saying, yes

i felt that too -- What will

we do, sullen Sister

of the half-light, can you pin us down

and

revert to an illogical place of logical ways

or will we be banished from this our ancestral lair?

armchair heroics on the divan

spill out of us

with a cough, our dry hack functioning

as our Tempered Scale unmetered and

understressed; we live

in lithe

trapeze stunts without a net -- We

are Given

to Understand that a quiet Wind is often

enough

to stir the deepest longings in our Soul; We

settle about

the town lost in fog and feeling out our fingertips toward

your flashing

light; we are your brothers, your sisters, your

friends who support

our heads dragging our spent bodies from the Sea

blowing hard into Us to unleash

regurgitations

of saltwater, our expectorated Woe

on Stage for all to see; a

hungry, yearning populace discounts any

notion of wicked Spirits -- here, in

close quarters, we

ache for the embrace of our Andalusian

Mujer we hurt here

with crowns and festal days the Sun too harsh

for our Pale flesh it is Palm Sunday we

hold down our territory

with fronds of our own an unsure Silence settling over

the ridge we spy

the Mountain heaving its bold

height through Red Clouds and grey

to seek out

lonely hunters and broken backs

its precipice looming

in every upturned Thought --

The Sea is a Womb –

Swirling eddies at the water’s Edge

conflate with Seaweed’s bursting pulp

to heave up Shame and Spirit

as we walk hand in hand before the Tide;

Who was it who put the tree

in your Ear? What God is there,

hibernating? -- the

fallen leaves of rusty brown, crimson-

lined and skeletal chart the

Sap’s progress

thru the mind; What

special Relationship do we have

with women working

here?

Can we count them

as Friends who know more than they let on?

Have they heard

you in your sleep intoning Cadences

to sound the bells, sound

the heavenly bells of this crooked Church

where Christ himself

will visit on his Return – The Water

of his Salvation will wash

over Us, lamb’s blood rife with

sugary Sense; Our Father, who

art in heaven, will

you rain down on us bullets or boats, will

you secrete hushed Messages

in the brine, will you

close our lids when we have died, will

you love us though we Sigh?

I have heard the Mermaids singing

and they Sing to Us our favored Colloquy

of Faith and Reason; – fish brush

against your legs flinching out of supple currents,

feeding quickly – the sea is greenblueblack

in a mood of Forgiving – as the waves

crest breaking twothreefour we see

sting-rays

and anemones their knoblike

protrusions round

like grapes – Will we have

the new wine

in the new Sacks? Sackcloths are

in Order, the carefully clothed

body atoning

again; the Sea sprouts terror, calumny,

libel, horror, it is the dark ship-devouring Wave; the

sea will bring you Solace if you wrestle well with it, if

you can tame its unholy ire – it will bow to you

its sweet submission – Souls of drowned Sailors

laugh at your Worry; the sea is a kitten licking

its paws – there, on the ocean floor whole

colonies of prismatic life flush strong

and expert in the current – Who will you

be when the Sea

disgorges you on the shore gasping for

breath and pushed into

your second birth?

*

the discovery of fire –

hurtling Shapes subsumed by Night the sky

darkening with Intent; hardknuckled routes

through the wood, branches

stinging, the brushing of leaves, bird cries

with impiety the sounds of a television sparking

spare minuets of an inclined dance

in the pitch; who caught the first Spark? Who tamed

the chimera, Fire? Who caught

and sheltered the orange flame burning with

mystery its heat a double-edged

sword, it’s crackling inspiration to the dance in

the moist Earth? – we burn

with sultry passion, we burn in anger, we burn

to burn the house down we seethe

with white heat

our prayers in incense smoke with fire, our

ritual is born

in kindling – We

are warmed in the winter’s ice with

our chant, our beating

of the drum to the whipping flames

angling skyward – we sit, before the fire,

untamed and here entranced – the television

sparkles on its quiet fire reminder of our

rite --

the pit bull’s arrival –

when the gate closes, sacrosanct, the

spirits unleash their reckoning, subtle

inclinations

of what was once pure what now

holds our attention

here in the aisles the children

playing in the sands the daisies bent

at the stem, hemp

and twine, black and white, the

vanguard in the rear, the somnolent

soldiers quarantined

for lack of a better remedy; it is here

we cup our hands

prayerful listening to

our elders gathered

in the lodge sweating out our Sins --