PREVIOUS NEXT FIRST LIFT THE BRICKS, No meeting have the two: one cradling...

della Francesca's Polyptych of St. Augustine
No meeting have the two: one cradling
newspaper leaves behind the moving shadows
of the moon revisiting where th'Light leaves

off, sifting itself so quietly
like a cool liquid steel

down a field making flowers forever still
searching the twilights for the naked body

to embrace before th'raping opposite finds &
dumps his own carcass into the hole of his being

della Francesca's Polyptych of St. Augustine

a tumbling thumping greatness
speeding along so blindly
across the specters of elaborate displays

of shrapnel shredding wounds (beauty
besmirched by its context) rifts

down the ranges of our prismatic solutions
in order to avoid the puzzles
& the pitfalls turning them obsolete

so obsolete as Hell's nursery
builds of them our best spawned settlements
surrounded by orchards of hunches

over-ripe or rotten, all th'nimblest portions
seeking nakedly to feel
the rhythms & raptures of hysteria

of tickling's mute moot munitions
around the Future's corners we go
sowing uniqueness on the anyman

all the ponds' cultivations
the framed leeches, the gaiety by th'gallows,

by those stoutest harvesters: th'sensualists
securing existence from lingos like lions,

& killed by their slaying Denial, murdered by
Indignation--their nun--stuffing Sympathy's
cardboard banks with Lack's badly

bruised, stuffed with Candor's cut-away scarlets
in the satins of the Authentic! by their dreary eggs

telling us their courteous illegalities
abusing the imitative old images
of their dead yolks the devout, golden

in their gathering, who dwell within
their mischief happiness knowing only

the unimaginative & hollow
ordinary human handicraft
of brutal, barbarous legalities

somethings only half-imaginable
across th'dwindling distortions
of the rising inspirations

of those dwellers outside the pond: driving
themselves dangling from their ropes' ends

devoting Sundays over those who are devoured up Mondays

out of captivity from their sweet accord
prismatic upon the ledge sub rosa
leans upon the carving Soul's finite arrays of

flaws, double-talks, lies th'guilt-gild harbored
Knight knitting the rope-ladder Last Second before
the World jumps off trying to break its neck

headlong on mediocrities noiseless, inaudible
th'gangway glorious greatness
smitten with smallness, the careworn coward

knitting unanimous musical madness, vibrating
echoless back & forth between the ears

The First One:
"Come back, my dear,
and I shall treat you fair."

The Last One:
"Goodbye, my dear, for 'fair'
& no matter how 'fair'
fair's much harsher than friendly"

Meanwhile: not all sound's merely
vibrations--There are hushed voices
the ears make believe they've heard

as real as animate skeletons
shaking within their worlds of flesh

crowned with th'musk rose Morning
challenging the dominions of th'grand reposing skies

inhuman: Sounds buried within their scope
upon the breast of Th'Blue sprinkling
global Golds pearls

worlds within worlds
blinking in & out in a thousands-twinklings
lining down th'air themselves

over stupendous spinners'
boundless webs & looms unending

all their adolescents mending
interminably down their consummate selves

caravaning from th'steepest hills
to the oxidizing oceans of their wills

stretched long lines--their so vibrant details
inaudible vibrations out
countless hells

sponging up th'noiseless moisture
of their dry being, locks on his listening,

billions of sails th'barrier

delimiting the very resolution of itself
billions & billions of indefinite details

cells & cells: Answers too slim
for spinning a way there

Dawn, uncontrollable, always building
its praises unending (of pureness

Th'Musics) in their own self-chases
chambered in th'oceans' porous hushed symphonies

of vibrations or motions building of the sunken

Man absorbing the mirage so strident
of Th'Soul keeping vigilance quietly

over th'blacksmith Heart pounding & pounding
the unlimbering horrors of the Hush

thus reluctantly sinking to the
Sea's wimpled gums in wonder, in ships
of th'Magic! loopholed parables & all,

hugely humbled, gleaming a sweaty washout,

our joyfullest echoes only Oblivion's
grim replies, turning pirates by th'swords

our tongues, yet cursed with Clemency
towards our victims, dead drunk with cosmic
liquors: pointing the finger at God (in
what unfathomable jurisdiction)

Life: its rugged features Unpredictables
--one whole skin universe & world

devouring being's din... that
confirming the progressions of the Light
conforming to the holders of the Night

solitude's tinkling moths, or
gods down the galleries--? and

"Life sure goes up & down
up & down ... I think it's
beating its meat with my guts..."