15. Innocence: The Sorceress
Blake told you and told you: you never heard.
There’s only the single speechless word.
It verberates your wordy skies,
It multiplies your bawdy ground.
As sound is unified with word,
The Lord is unified with sound.
I am She who dances on the face
Of the waters, ignorant of light.
Over, ever, harrowing your rock,
I dance the clothless customs of the air.
I swing my heels in demption’s tree,
I toss you down the deeming fruit,
I sing you down the song you ask,
I burn untouched in flower flames:
Untouched, I am what each word names.
To sing of history, or of a trinity,
Or of the tree, sing me.
All moves in threes, and I
Am the ground of every trinity:
I make you real to sing.
You must eat from every tree:
All root in me.
In everything I sing:
All you can sing is me.
16. The Hanging Man
He has to die, that’s history,
Be Second Fruit of Second Tree;
So intellect betrays him into being
Messiah in spite of everything.
His mystic cousin, Judas Iscariot,
His light through arab deserts where the bands
Of angels teach him the work of the chariot,
The only one who understands
The plan and carries out the act
He asks, despairs when prophecy
Fails, hangs on the left-hand
Branch of that betraying tree.
Left-handed, out intellect
Betrays us for ourselves by light.
Poet, can you say your hands
Know about each other in the night?
You’ll never know about St. Judas; pray
For him, or light, on All Saints’ Day
17. Soared and Balances
That thing in itself, the tree:
It sings in Moses’ rod,
In the crucified beam,
Above St. Judas’ neck,
Over Arthur’s grave,
Is all our bones and floods,
And its fruit our blood and brains,
Our selves we ring for May and Yule—
Both trees, both fruits:
The conscience we taste the fruit with,
Kali dancing in the Bo tree
Where Ezekiel sings in the ringing fire
Of the chariot, wheel in a wheel
And four by four, way in the middle of the air.
18. The Whirled
How can we sing what else history might be:
A beau to pluck us each into another chants?
We’re angel grubs who’ve forgotten how to spin
The thread we pluck to sing the world we’d have,
The wings that would unfold our shoulders,
Quires among the burning flowers,
The bellying stars, the secret cunt of plenum
Where darkness condenses to a spark,
Superangelic face among the nebulae.
How can we care enough for history
To sing each singular second, or a trinity—
Ourself, an other, both—or sing
The chasms we cross to name a thing,
Or Marx’s “Love makes me believe
It is all real”?
Why, sing Second Eve:
History: our whole experience
Is we only redeem our innocence
By losing it. To sing everything,
Even the tree, sing the Lady:
She’s where our tree roots, and we
Can only know our trinity through
Her, who makes us reel to sing.
Everything sings the Lady:
She sings too!
19. The Moon
Who’ll see why I sing the Lady?
Who’ll think I’ve turned Papist again?
I walk straitbacked past the church;
I kneel to flowers
And still I work, somewhat wooden,
At my aesthetic desk,
Telling you of time
And mind again, but always
Just so much, and more
Unsaid, outside, that tree.
20. The Hearofont
I’m always glad to walk away
From ruens, back to the city
Where enjinns create freedom
And poesies flurrish on sidewalks,
Humming to myself,
“I can’t get no . . .
San Francisco. . .”
O, there are other Byrds hear!
The Airplane’s an algorhythm enjinn
Of Innocence, and time’s
A Möbius strip, flames
In our looping: what church
Will be founded on this rock,
What moss on these Stones?
“Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand!”
Yes, it’s playing the Avalon this Easter
21. The Fool
Through city fog my strange walk’s a dance.
As if some old wind off theTigris
Or time had condensed into stone,
This temple sits, waiting for its Gibbon—
O, I’ll be its barbarian,
Or maybe a Christian—
A sanddune on fogshore
Where history curls, coils, brakes
Like distant drums, an angel’s sigh,
And I am the last
Of a long line of semaphores,
Wigwagging news of battles
No one will ever hear the end of,
Or who’s playing,
Or even what’s the score.
I dance only the last metaphor,
Beginning to spiral myself
A thread of invisible silk.
Coda: The Chariot
Poet, poet, does anyone pay
A Goddamned bit of attention
To anything you say?
But all you lovers,
Don’t think the revolution’s over:
It hasn’t begun.
Chaos is never overcome.
O never forget to face the chaos.
An hour a day facing chaos
Is more courageous than fresh cunt,
Does more than either beer orMiltoncan
To real the dumb schillerings:
In earthquake aura,
In quicksilver message,
In history flower,
In atom of self, I am
(Look, up in the air, it’s)
His every now’s a new,
Innocent as seventeen’s aurora,