Listen, young one, to the sounds of my insights
into you, who arise
emerge as I do,
unlike the children who will one day grow up
within this vernal spirit.
Listen, young one, to all I know
of you, who found your self
here, fallen
from a very real heaven
They pitched you out
tossed you like a log onto a fire
landing with a crackle, embers swirling
into the air like rushing spirits,
each flying spark
an Indra, a soul king,
spending borrowed wealth
which They gave, They who tossed you here
then went away
dead.
You fell into this fire
chewing your tongue, charging
an electrical potential in the skull
in the guts
of the body
the sparks, words
which I gesture out at high voltage,
gutturally, limbically,
electric birds of art and logic
migrating to that on which no wings can alight,
in which no nest can construct itself with the help of beaks
and talons,
and the whistles and sidelong glances
from creatures on which it preys,
a thing far away from sound
as the stars of the universe in their quiet burning,
one and the same as the ground
from which all sacred mantras emerge
into which they dissolve
the source of breath
the irrational impulse to breathe.
As a rite of passage I will take you to the fight,
young one, I will buy you
your first cigar, your first cheap beer
in a can, take a look in the ring,
there in the red corner, weighing
in at 154 pounds
a man with a pen,
waterproof, fadeproof ink,
acid free paper.
And in the black corner
of infinite size and density
infinite water, infinite fading . . .
the opponent?
Take any one of these cornered creatures
no matter how beloved
no matter how many souls were fed by his magic beans,
somewhere in the universe, gods are laughing
uncontrollably at the moment of his demise,
no matter how painful, no matter how lengthy,
and during the wake they titter
and all through the eulogy they chortle and guffaw.
Even his magic beans
for which he cared so lovingly,
planted so thoughtfully
and with such inspiration--
they care nothing for him.
It bears witness to us
to the rhythms blossoming in our eyes
in the whole of us
spacious flowers opening
and closing between horizons,
to the sounds wandering like Theseus
in the dark labyrinth of the one
who listens.
Ariadne’s threads,
knit into the fabric
of the flesh
a sweater for bones,
scarves for every cell
made near a smouldering hearth
during an awesome night,
threads knit into the bones,
into the cells,
fabric stretching for miles on every side
nothing but an intricate yarn
continuous, uncut,
moving with the muscles,
the nerves, the blood and water,
moving them,
they move it
in return.