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.

"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.

I Have Wandered In This City,

I have heard strange voices.
The air seems full of sweat
and stink, the buildings smeared
with grime. How long has the
city lived? How long will it?

You, Nebuchadnezzar, bright king—
you are my hammer, my weapon
made for war. I will train your
hands, my right hand will
teach you terror. The city
sings, for the horse is broken
and the rider falls.

I have wandered in this city
and called it good. Have you
built houses here, Jacob? Where
are your gardens, David? The
horse is broken and the rider
falls. Cyrus, be ye welcome.

october in los angeles

The unchanging change is the mystery of rhythm.
Things grow and die and time alone continues-
things grow and die and grow again, a backbeat,
a pulse, a bass drum thump. There are
times and seasons for all things: a time
for sky and a time for sea, a time for roses
and a time for roots, a time for laughing and
a time for singing, a time to write and
a time to speak, a time for all things which
are to be no more, and to be again.
The unchanging: change is the mystery of rhythm.

The unchanging changes- the mystery of rhythm.

Elihu bar-Barachel

He said to me What gain is it
to God if you are righteous
or if you are upright Has not
God made all things and does He
not put HIs breath in all that
lives Will not the dead see God
does not the redeemer live And
then will you you Job wail and
cry that you are robbed of right

And I said to him I have
seen the face of the Almighty
and I cannot stand He thunders
and I cannot stand He walks
throughout the valley and all
the bones are clothed And I
am an old man now and full
of years

Untersberg

These are days to make
Men think that ravens
Might fly around the peak
And the old red king might
Wake and rise. These are
Nights that harrow hearts,
That call up hymns from
Fallow eyes. But take
Heart, for the end is
Not yet.

Of Many Sides a Prism

I walked barefoot last night
and the concrete was now rough
now smooth alternating in
change and constancy in time
and rhythm.

I am made a man of many sides
a prism to catch and throw and
break the light and in all things
I am a hunger.

Have we a desert without prophets?
Have we a voice without words?

I walked barefoot last night to the
sound of crickets and the concrete
was cracked but I did not feel it.

Columbusplatz

Smoke from half a dozen cigarillos
Curls and twists and smooth talks
Its way into my nose, and there are
Turks inside Vienna—but I’m an
Indie rocker, dammit, and there ain’t
No stopping me. Wine like blood
Stains enamel and brown, brown
Beer runs like the tide, and here we
Are but not for long: five weeks to
Meet, sixty years to die—and I’m
An indie rocker, dammit, and there
Ain’t no stopping me. Memory plays
The long con, you know, and I’m
Just a damn indie rocker, and not
Too hard to stop—I mean, you
Probably could, if you wanted to.
There are Turks inside Vienna,
But we won’t be for long.

The Burning of Servetus

Skin crackle
Bone pop
Marrow sizzle
Flesh roast
Wood roar
Smoke billow—
Mind judge
(Conscience bad?
Spirit troubled?)—
Blood boil
Eyes wither
Hair smolder
Tongue smoke
Lies die
Man dead:
God pleased(?)

The Anointing of Saul

The prophet stood before the people
And raised his winkled hands toward the
Sky. "People, my people, what have I
Done to you? Have I lifted my hand
Against you? Have I come down from
The hills to rob you? Or have I
Taken your sons and daughters from
You?" And the people mutter and roil
And answer, "You have not done these things."
"Testify before God," the prophet cries.
"So we testify." "On your own heads, then,"
He says, "For me, I will go up to
Ramah. Serve the Lord and Him only."
And so the prophet went, robes flapping
In the desert wind. And the eyes of
The people went with him for a time.

But then came Saul, tall and young and strong
And eager. And on his shoulders, which
Carry the nation, and on his brow,
Handsome and well-knit, dark, creeping things
Begin to play. "I am God's anointed,"
He says, his shining eyes toward the
People. "Praise the Lord," he says, and smiles.