eulogy for sam (or APUSH sketches) part 1: 1492-1607

in the beginning,

formed in raining alleyways by celestial comedians

seafaring sadists and 

in the pure and holy blood 

of excellent angelheaded servants of our just leader

they came to tame and to civilize the impossible 

peoples

in those pink 

first few hours of dawn,

you placed your palms

made of heaven 

on the edge of the blade

it rained baby's breath

from skies full of gold and silver

salvations unholy kiss

shared with her only necessity,

the angel who had sunk beneath the sky

with bitter proclamations of corruption

she offers them now her velvet chains and

who are they to refuse her? 

they who with broken lungs sing and

 with shattered palms sow

await the royal neglect and the broken promises

of destiny

                                                 

                                                                                            (september 18)

around, around, around

tonite, the tuna ham (tune-a-ham) radios

are jellyfish shock buzzing in the proud

raised hands of little children

lucid unslept hours i can crawl a-howling through the foreign lakes of moon shined mollusks where those little yellow butterflies deserted when the sun gone down 

but nows no time for no circuses you says

and i know it sure as you but i say think

somehow those flies keep my feet bov the ground

come early when the silver of nitetime beget a new pink dawn those locusts gonna stop singing 
and ill have nowhere to go but around,

around, around

i really need a good friend mama

There was a song of gold and silver

the crazy sparrow once sang

to me on some smokey

pine-porch afternoon,

to keep the desert off my mind

now, it's a song of dust and longing

the locusts begin:

a light pink overture

in that time of night,

 when the sky wear a cloak of snails--

pliny's blood, thick as dark--

she holds the daytime still,
the seven roots of men. 

her body in the stars, 

her face in the moon

in the wintertime, i fly southward

Now i cannot really speak of winter

only of a time when the sun quits

and the locusts sing forever

snake island lighthouse

Frumet of the stone shipwrecks, the 

patron saint of children's games

where you have stood, i am standing now

upon this rivers relentless washing,

here by this bloody rubble, 

where some lost eagle prey,

where on death's doorway kneel 

the abandoned ones,

where these crystal canyons are crying,

where before the bloom of its hyacinths

come the shadows,

there are no shadows here

just the glittering sunlight over her infinite glory.

Frumet the dancing one, the wise, 

for you the wild oak sighs.

the queen of silver pomegranates, of ivy leaves,

of honest thieves

where you have been, i have never been before.

  (august 19)