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 45.
We no longer beg the Diety,
Jack, Ego, I, myself, and me.
He with a capital H directs
The yawls and dinks to rocks as wrecks:
His whim to be made known, his Ire
A flaming bird muscling a gyre,
His modulated humor, routine
Traps and pratfalls scene after scene
Commanding love, respect and awe,
Blind awe, blind faith, blind acts.
A blindeaf wooly headsman weilding
His bond a putrid bone, his acts: a fine ax.
Mars is in his retrograde
And I am in his path.
He cools his heels, yawns as I fade:
(A fitting aftermath).
His battles pause and all regroup:
Victory dearly bought,
I kneel now, stretch the neck and stoop—
On axedged afterthought.
Do I have my phone charged up? is my
Subway pass in the right pocket, my
Floor pass in the other? And if I
Change clothes will I forget where I
Put my PDA, my ticket home
And wander endlessly, Ulyssesly,
In a long, dense blood-bath battle poem?
46.
The leaves fall slowly.
In no hurry goes every single one.
Denuding Summer and its Green
Propulsion into the pulp of
Imperious Ivory-Orange Autumn;
Burning
The knolls and blanketing with
Dead Sheets the
Frozen Day.
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