Monday, December 19, 2011

Mit Warmem Blut (Von Goethe)

If Yahweh does not build
the house, all our building
is in vain, is in vain.

All my moral indignation,
prophetic cries, and sweeping
vision-- All your plans
for revolution, your dreams of
justice and return-- All
the songs of true and false,
good and evil, right and
wrong-- What to me? Not
a thing. A quintessence of
dust. If Yahweh does not
build the house

If Yahweh does not build--
set his heart to it, gather
to himself his spirit--
If Yahweh does not build

and his breath, all flesh
will perish-- if Yahweh
does not build

if Yahweh does not
Does not

Build

Sing the Body Mechanical

I sit and wave hello while
the parade goes on ahead:

Go by, go by, you lords
and ladies, you lovers
and linchpins, go by

Go by in green and
silver, go by, go by.

Go by, you singers at
the sudden strife, go
by, go by to the
lighthouse and the gate
at King's, to the
causeways, and the
Schwarzwald and
Salzkammergut, go
by, go by while the
sun still shines and
the earth still turns.

Sing hallelujahs with
your bodies; dance
dances with your minds.

Friday, December 9, 2011

"It's Winter," Says

One of the old Olympians holding
the winds in a bag. "Like hell!"
screams the grass, and is promptly
crushed. Tumble down, December,
tumble out, 'til my feet crunch
and my eyes go bleary blue.

Outside, all is frosted earth and
snap-dried leaves in red and gold.
I wonder if the plants have a
doctrine of the resurrection of the
flesh, or is it more like the
Wheel of Samsara?

Über allen Gipfeln ist Ruh,
but today I don't see it, and
the sun is white and far away.

5, 605, 105

It's December in this desert
and I am stalking the cold. Last
night I saw a man in a Santa
hat walking out of the parking lot
and into the sunset over Los
Angeles. Where are you going
and where did you go, Santa
man? What presents are you
bringing? Rhinoplasty for Ms.
Martinez, liposuction for Mr.
Braun, a Bentley whose interior
is cocaine-white for the Jacksons.

It's December in this desert
and I'm so far from the dim
dark woods I love so well and
the rocky shores that smell
of salt. Where are you going,
Santa man? Can I come, too?

D'Un Petit Hérétique

I read the other day in
a little book with a yellow
cover and a bad soul one
quiet and disquiet thought:
I can be at once the hurt
and the hurting, my broken
hands can still draw blood.
So what I learned from this
petit hérétique, this Marcion
with a mitre, is that every
martyr is a bastard, and
Christ loves bastards best.