from A Dearth of Prose


Babel has risen!
Nimrod's hammer long dead,
but its clamor still rings
in the empty tomes.
Is he but seventy
and dares to chart the
rolling roiling roiling
black skies in a
Oh, the doctor's collar!
the cartographer surveys heaven
and finds it blank.
My oh my!
are we there?
The Grecian scribe of
"Hail, Aphrodites!
Hail Hermes, god of Western Culture!"
writes abreast the current.
The Acropolis has risen
a perfect Eden,
and we wander no more,
and we wander no more,
and we wander,
and we wonder no more.


Earth cannot have had a flood,
its mountains are too steep;
but Mars - a great Noachian flood!
out from Noachian deep.

Come, see me dance,
and you still aren't dancing.
For: we all now know
we do not know
you do not know
we cannot know:
so walk, then?
Let us survey the great
fireflies of the moon forest
and I, if I must take myself
down the cedar aisle alone,
I will not expect any vows
from you. Let the
Pleiades and Orion
answer mine.

A small bear
plucks berries of the sky.
His mother is nearby.
The horsemen speak in constellations
but all you see is


Old walls
older foreheads
caught in dark glass
above these forests.
Their telescopes have told that
all listening is vain.
'By Jove!
by Saturn!'
sings the Greek -
'and Mars?-'
it's all the same.
But modern man has exorcised:
the Universe
is synthesized.

One concatenation
of various rhythms
saltshakers and strings
inside a quavering glass theatre
where a black suit man swings stick
to disturb the observatory.
An amateur ear
plots the mathematical beat
with nod,
and humming machinery
plots the energetic hum
of a quasar.

There are fifteen thousand flowers
all silent in their days
where the ways of man
cross not,
and the academic waves
do not question
the daisy field
that no eye has seen
but God,
and he smiles.

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