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.