Call on the Lord. Let the hells be
nervous. So intense the water is dripping from baptisms.
The pain of the mystic—the heat of
the magician—so much terror in those eyes. The bassoon is blasting, the timpani
is speaking Africa, the tuba has placed us in Italy.
Heirlooms and passports, roses
dipped in glitter, the meraki of the excellence, the yugen of the soul, the
kalon of the art;
so calm it aches, the step before
pure insanity, the block burning in Texas.
The Warhol of the poets, the
Machiavelli of antiquity, or the X finding his name;
the recuse of the war, the table
with strategies, the last one to fix the story;
the pentacle of naked praise, the
only mistake
proven a miracle.
Listening to interior, just about
exhausted, when a soul appeared, the phonograph on the brains;
to admit a problem, to annoy a
problem, to arrest the entire problem—like Jesus is walking Bethsaida, or Joh
is eating locusts, the inmost compassion for a lost peoples.
Like wanting what was hated,
pledged to die, the fortune of the zealot—more balanced, at the gates, arguing
with Lazarus.
