The Book's Song

it is addressed thusly:
An ode.
it reads:
I have a mind on every page
And every page is always speaking
In the mind of one who's peeking
Should he peek into another age --
But if you put me on the shelf
I will have converse with myself.



it is addressed thusly:
A thought.
it reads:
Imagine a world where no one knows
That you are human, or what men do
And that will not be decided for you
And still as all men must eventually do
They all discover they are human too

But some don't - and that's the catch
Men walking about just on all fours
Hanging from trees, sleeping on floors
This is our world, but instead of fetch
Everything else they bend and stretch.


The Orator Denounces a Baudy Festival

it is addressed thusly:
A vision.
it reads:
In first spring there was the march
Of the perpetual offense, whose train
Was a thousand poor, thin children in the rain
In minds stiff with new corn starch
March, march, you mixed up men
Wait for an utterance, and only then
Raise the cry! Raise it high, high
O, the thousand hungry mouths in vain
Calling out in nonsense, calling for the brain
No time to bake, boil or fry
When the real zombies rise up to be fed
They cannot tell the living from the dead.
a postscript is here written:


The Poet Reflects Upon The Early Spring

it is addressed thusly:
A vision
it reads:
They demoralize you with words
To tell you that they think you should lose
The words are facts, the mind moves
To disenfranchise, to cut all the cords
To beat plowshares into swords.

The morning is cold; an icy touch
Carved patch-patterns into the dry walk
They are an iridescent invisible chalk
In lamplight your eye may linger much
Frostlike snow drops from trees and such.

Peace is like war and war like peace
Never have we seen this promised land
Where those healing trees would stand
Where a good mens' honest warrings cease
Those mean internal dissents increase.

Old stone, fruit of the living earth
Would it be painted with icon-hues
Or cut and fit as an old peasant would use
The tower broad, for in its merry berth
A bell, a way of royal worth.

These four were bound to come to blows
The merchant, peasant, clerk and knight
We see the bodies of their futile fight
Each tries to exclude, but beneath knows
That time will their deceit expose.

Silent iron makes morning in relief
To loud roaring day, whose noisome streets
Along them that same anthem repeats
Live in despair and die in grief
Time steals all, destroys belief

Denatured, they do not know their name
Nor do they know what a name is for
To tell, to be told, wait at the door
For a sound to tell them just the same
But they grew old as no sounding came.

Around his void each man is curled
Some abrim with invisible flame
Others deflate like balloons, how lame --
Upon the walls our truth unfurled:


The Stele

it is addressed thusly:
A vision.
it reads:
Grief is a species of wrath, he said
As we surveyed the new war dead
With blood bright like flashing cars
Eyes shaded, veiled by the stars
The mind is a knife, its flashing edge
Transparent, conceals its zero hedge
Decides for good, decides for ill
Of seeing they say, never gets its fill
But that tears make it look inside
So we avenge not once, lest we slide
Into the jaws of each hungry child
By loss and bitterness made wild
But having nothing to recompense I'm told
Man must avenge them sevenfold.


The Song On The Road's End Side

it is addressed thusly:
An ode.
it reads:
It roars anew, the merciless tide
The reign of the moon, of Saturn beside
Look to the sea! The desert-place
And to those men who turned their face
To set their only love aside.

Egypt's race was buried once
Err of Pharaoh, whose fearless stunts
Made deep sea their burial-place
Because he would not turn back his face
Whose hubris set his love aside.

Baptize the ships, he might have said
The Byzantine-general now long-dead
Who with greek-fire made Turks blind
Whose thousand-might could never find
A place for their love aside.

Before fire comes water's lave
The earth is washed, from crag to cave
But once; so be sure to make it count
Once Terra was a baptismal fount
For those that love had set aside.

Old night returns, the deep its name
Chaos is sea, they are the same
To rise and baptize the ruddy crowd
Its din was soft, its din was loud
Said love, as an aside

You fear fire, you fear apocalypse
No sign shall be given nemesis
To denoue it from the gray expanse
From the errors and the recompense
From loves it cannot cast aside.

Eat chaos, death eating one
Sorrow's footfall may softly come
Look to the sea! A ship is seen
Against it sharp, against it keen
And cast your love aside.
a postscript is here written:
a pass-word:





it is addressed thusly:
A vision.
it reads:
The time moves ceaselessly ahead
We think of it as duration, change
And yet we cannot find strange
What we know of our own tread
The same and difference places
The gestalt of new and old faces
If it had been we might know
No apocalypse dream can undo
Though we forget what we knew
We do not see the fast or slow
Footprints in the dirt, for not all
Is sand to human hand and footfall
As we note something we missed
Larger by ten than we could see
The track of some old monstrosity
Pointed toes, and then shapes in the mist
Of a scaled fish, dull and blood red
Gaping maw - the lord of the dead
But a crocodile emerges, tall as a man
He says not a word, but draws in a breath
And we smell, an odor of death
Inclining his head, do we understand?
Knowing too late, the sign of his tread
And the time moves ceaselessly ahead.

The Blaze Of Their Glory

it is addressed thusly:
An ode.
it reads:
The blaze of their glory is just this
To come quickly to the edge of what can be
To see that all along they could not see
To believe that they but merely exist
To know that they know nothing at all
To brighten the sky with their final fall
As did once another bearer of light
The centuries they sought him at last
His own justice they far surpassed
Will then, we see at last it is night
Will then we forgive them also this
Where mercy and dread justice kiss
And before the Day, make good yet
Of a bad hand - the worst we may
Of true happiness yet what do they say
Of where truth and righteousness met - ?
In this great burning walk not amiss
The blaze of their glory is just this.


White Knight

it is addressed thusly:
A vision.
it reads:
For him there is no dread before God's face
A milk-white soul, doll-painted and bright
Does he know when he takes back the night
Is his pale-daub armor platinum or lace
Without bloodshed there is no recompense
For his coin-tosses does he have sense
Does he make them with pentacle in hand
Sleight must be made to save his chance
Others wear his grime and clean his lance
Kept man he is, good enough to understand
What good could be, case-maximized
His humility is a shadow rather oversized
In that armor is there one man or two
Everyone guesses at his secret thorn
But to condemn him they are then torn
"He fights", a statement latter made true
He turns his cheek for striking's sake
But most know not to strike a snake.