February 20, 2009, Part 1

In the first hour, I crept to the cavern,
The crater beneath the treacherous tarp
Where Bacchic dancers declaim, sing, and tap
Waiting for the film to break, overturn
And thus upset the balance of the world.

Had there been gargoyles (there were then none)
With lustful devils lurking by each one
Casting spells of decay-smelling powder
That numbs the mind with depressing power
More death in the air that day would not have swirled.

And there I planted a papyrus perfume
That on March Ninth would hopefully bloom.

In the second hour, I limped from the place
With tears streaming down the back of my face
For from the ordeales, I wanted to flee,
My mind was filled with fair far scenery.

A tree-filled meadow, sunny and green
Dotted yet open with tannish buildings
Filled with books and words that are destined to last
Where some things are ugly, but nothing is dullest.

I desired that place like a potter, who spins
His clay on the wheel, but when does he win
The cup he is making? Is perfection achieved
When exhausted and spent he regretfully cease?

In the third hour, when tumbling tears
Of fear and regret made thundering storm
I tried to sit quietly, though my mind leered,
In front of my God, to recite the form
Of prayeres learned in long-forgotten years.
From this, only exhaustion there was born.

But when I fixed my gaze upon Him
Tried to wrench the round key of my Image-Machine
That lover’s pen, drunken anti-turpentine
Wild monster of swamps unheard, unseen,
Into Truth’s small square unspoiled key-hole
To “put” God in that ring of paltry rubied gold,
He grabbed me, threw me, twisted me (like a newspaper’s
Darling politicians tweaks truth over long years
To bend opinions into an eastern circle)
So my every drawn breath was a feverish oracle
In praise of Him.