Proclamation of the Great King

I have been long away
from this good city, Babylon,
which is called the center of
the earth, Shinar, where all
peoples gather and exchange
their goods for silver, and their
silver for many goods.

Great has been my solitude,
but greater still my soul, for
gods alone endure much lonesomeness.

And is Nebuchadnezzar not like 
the gods?

                 You may have heard
abroad that some strange god had
sent me out, but pay no mind to
scandal-spreaders. My exile was
my own: I drove my soul - I! -
into the fields to live a life
like oxen live, like many legs
that scuttle in the deep, and
it was not with me as with 
the sons of men. The strongest

man would not dare, as I dared,

to leave aside the blooming world,

the city of all good things, and

seek alone the ragged edge of

lonesomeness.

                            Therefore,
Belteshazzar, in whom many strong
spirits wrestle and contest, proclaim
in the city celebration, for I,
Nebuchadnezzar, am among men again,
and the sons of men may see my splendor.

Heavy June

In a dry and arid land where many 

hands dig ditches and carry 

water over long miles, across 

treacherous places, through manifold

dangers, through 

manifold wonders,

through land inhabited by

strangers who speak in strong

and foreign tongues, hands

bringing water to nurture gardens,

to embellish plots with greenery,

to change the face of earth. And

where, I wonder - I wonder, O

Los Angeles, when your cisterns break

and your water spills, where then

can you turn your painted face?

            We were gathered around

            a fire, gathered and gathering -

more men and more women, fires

encircling fires, until the light 

became perpetual, and the gathered

            fire we have called a city.

In the land of Shinar, in 

the land of Salem, at the

mouth of thin rivers, at

the mouth of the wide

            sea, gathered in the month

            of sowing, at the month of

            harvest, gathered together

            and content to be called

            a city.

In the city of indifference,

the city of acedia,

city of sacrificial love,

the city sprawling under sun,

            we have been gathered here.

Paean

I am falling, stillness notwithstanding,
falling, falling – forever falling down
these stairs, I bruise my shoulders,
bruise my hips, I bear perdition in
my body: endless depths within
the belly
shining in all its parts,
behold!
the heart abyssal, curvum
in se all trembling at the cognizance
and full of scorpions, dear wife:

root-cap finger, influenza influence,
desdichado
désolée, backward bleeding
dissolution, O this blasted hinterland,
this severed creek where deathbirds
fly;
O womb of Carthage, salt-sown
and ravaged,
                     working will insensible, oh
make straight the way!

Christus sub terra
Pantokrator

alone who grades true
make me eager and willing – 
only comfort, only comfort.

Until Shiloh

Oh child, sleep easy, sleep

in the turning to winter, on the

hinge of the rounded year:

Until Shiloh comes,

with his bones made of

sunshine, and coffee grounds

his blood, and his feet

will turn the hills to butter

and he’ll fill the skies with wine.

Yes, when Shiloh comes,

with his mouth of bronze

and his sugared clothes, to melt

the waxen hills—his fleshly tongue

the lightning burst,

his eyes are living coals.

Shiloh comes on back a mount

of gingerbread, peppermint sword

in radiant hand. The

scepter has not passed

from Judah, and now the

tribute enters in, like a lion

if not like a murdered lamb.

Kiss him, this lovely son, lest he be angry—

you will find him wrapped in swaddling-clouts.

Hexenhammer

In the cracked and bleeding winter,

like leaves beneath the lying snow,

I read portents in my father’s

Irish hands.

                        In search of the cord

that binds the severed self, holds

hand to wrist and word to tongue,

keeps up the kissing of bone to bone

and flesh to heart. Keep breath in me,

when blood itself sings out for

dissolution.

I grow tired of your incense mutters

and the way you talk so knowingly

of the alchemy of the soul, preening

psychopomp tracing human destiny

in the palm’s careless lines.

But I heard delusion in the hammered

keys, and behold, my eyes are opened.

On the sidewalk in the bay of bricks,

I saw forms and images where the sky

as sullen silver sits on top of spires

that I have seen and sounded. Quick,

now, the water-song, when it sweeps up

into the wind to writhe and spin. As of old:

            cold-crying summer-slayer,

            Sleet-Spitter, crack crystal—

            come work us to worship.

Not by star-signs and houses of influence,

but by the word’s own time and rhythm,

as dust teaches dust what is meant by

wisdom.

            In the cracked and bleeding winter,

like leaves beneath the lying snow, I

read portents in my father’s Irish hands.

The Shaving of a Beard

The shaving of a beard is our

modern-day memento mori. All growing

things will come to die. Razor-reaper,

apocalypse in Barbasol. Hier ende

ich die Welt. Await the resurrection.

The shaving of a beard is our

self-mortifying penance. Great heroes

wear their beards, we throw ours away.

I am not the kind of man whose

name and face swim unbidden through

the brain. I do not occur to you.

The shaving of a beard is our

confession of dependence, the shame-

faced sigh: I am in need of love.

The beard is a badge of manly

pride, but anathema to woman.

Gone are the bristles from my chin,

the shaggy man no more. For Isaac

loved red Esau; Rebecca, Jacob:

smooth and soft, trickster-hero.

You feel the razor

as it passes,

but you know

not whence, nor

where it goes.

Christ, Consoler

                                           At the shore, a sea-wind ate

                                           my blood, so warm and so red,

                                           reminding me sweetly of you.

                                           Christ the Lord died in a

                                           glory of voices, was raised

                                           to crown the dead. LORD God

                                           of these islands, be my comfort now.

                                           There I saw seaweed black

                                           like hair on driftwood horns—

                                           behold, the beast that cometh

                                           from the sea, the dragon

                                           that is in the deep.

                                          We speak in doubled voice. We

                                           speak in many voices: we speak in

                                           chords. So give us peace, give us

                                           consolation from beyond the doors,

                                           of time and the earthen possible.

                                           O Savior of the sick-ward,

                                           Christ Almighty, crucified

                                           for cancer:

                                                            Christus Consolator,
                                                 In Hoc Signo Vinces.