Lanthanum 3.24


His head full of booze, regrets, & Shakespeare
& latecomer summer a long way off, when he leapt
across the snowbank path (heart deep in Deptford,
wi' old Sad Sack, Falstaff). He's buried there.

Bury the man in Resurrection Cimetière
th'empurpled writ bespoke, beforehand (counter-
signed by Caesar's notary). & he stepped his contra-
dance into groin of hurricane (contrarian

to the end). & he was turning, he was turning
toward the Chippewater (Hole-in-the-Sky);
whatever they say, he lived before he died.
& then he lived again, crd Mgdln (his burning

almond branch). A possum to the opossums,
she sleeps in the gradient of her unspoked
commonweal. Like the latest Al Freed – Free
at Last
(near St. Louis Park) – in a Scandinavian

electoral smorgasbord (or free-for-Al). Wrasslin'
with temporal gravity, like a gnomic Einstein son.
Downstream a little from that Gateway quaternion.
Servant of servants (Memphis garbage men).

& the curious echoes of the names (in limestone
inscriptions). A sort of mnemonic harmony
of overtones – implicit, understated (gracefully
the glory of the Lord shone round about them, hon).

& the emptiness under the cranial dome (Shakespeare's
last sup of ineffable happiness). Only an emblem
of my Byzantine parallelogram (parabolic theorem) :
that the nature of love = the nature of the Father's

gentle disposition, meek & mild. & so forsaking
everything but Psyche-life, but life itself...
he'll wayfare toward the crossroad (milky surf)
& lift his Hobo-rood. To some'res. (Magdalen?)


Lanthanum 3.23


So Hobo, the lousy shepherd, wanders onward
through his wintry Bruegel-pantomime. And
Blackstone, the dreamer-wasp, his January
alter-ox – his white bull's eye (from Hvd Yd?)

a moving target for the Lords Ecclesiastical
both of them seemingly wrong-way-mazed.
Taking the scenic route (a bit crazed
by foot-in-mouth, no doubt – looseliptical)...

but neither here nor there. En route.
Toward an encounter. With the bulliest bully
of them all – bearish half-man, half-animal –
in a funhouse glass, miroir funèbre. C'est tout.

Les jeux sont faits. All face cards up.
The Jack of Hearts, the Queen of Spades...
eh? The little lady's got it made.
In Petersburg we'll sup once more, and tip

the cabby from his sunlit round, my dear

(in the back seat). Persephone stirs
in her ice-locked palace... the sun-disk whirrs...
Hobo-Blackstone's snowy way (somehow) is clear.

If but the Greeks could see... Troy, the arena.
Dancing butterflies, hummingbirds. A blazing
funnel of dust-mote fireflies, grazing
sunset - restless caper to the last crane-

leap (bareback, bare-breasted, bull-defying).
So they rise from slumber, by the tents of
Mamre, Mammy – to gam with an angel (Glint).
By the pool, by the lake. Like a mirror. Flying.


Lanthanum 3.22


Under the moon, O changeling moon, truth
flickers fitfully, in milky Troy-town light.
Meanders furrowing our 7-year blight
are desiccated by a cursive X, forsooth –

Joseph's admonishment, a screwed-up Jubilee.
The ruddy month of harvest, already whitened
by sickly mold (cold, cold)... & the writing
on the wall is always there, a promissory

note (for AWOL understanding). Meanwhile
the plane of time and history drones overhead,
relentless flywheel – each local tribal forehead
marked with a familiar V (for viper-trail)

& the moon wavers through lampshade clouds...
all human sighs whorled in a single, tidal cry
for rest, nocturnal crest – the shoreline's
hushed I am, I am (systole, diastole) through

bent shrouds of night-branches (creak
of olive, almond, gopher-wood, ash, oak).
Remorse for every Ariadne turns the fork
of the plow back on itself (my widow's peak

by flattened y-axis) – ineluctable recursion
of Theseus-dance become one wooden sound,
one whole demand, one human wound... one
Hopi thumb-print (Hopewell river-immersion).

& you will be led along by the gravity
of a greater love, overshadowing... turn
after turn, tide after tide, in the quern
of the Queen's long-yearning (unrushed levity).


Lanthanum 3.21


A hint of fall now in the restless breeze.
The monarchs gather at the milkweed pods
out on the prairie. A wave of goldenrod
will see them off, on their prodigal progress

toward Mexico hemlocks. Psyche, the shy
white cabbage-moth, will watch them go.
Ariadne, holding her empty thread, will know.
Her prince (a premonition in the summer sky).

& summer ghosts will reunite, in a mossy jar
of myrrh. As if the chronicle of last year's book
turned green, a metamorphosis... the crooked
bull-char in the concrete floor suddenly

stood sheer (ellipsis of a morris dance
or Avon puzzle-ring) & beamed a rude circle
like cartwheels of Vladimir – sailor-seal
of Abram's petrel Hen (his Gateway trance).

The lake in the dry pool, like a late romance...
the water from the sky... the reign of some
magnanimous Prospero... Ariel's crumb-
path, out of peculiar woods... the leaning lance,

the a-historical nonsense, the anachronism
of stubborn, infantile, unremitting love
(that will not relent)... Shrove-
tide will bring him to the honeycomb

of Everyman's cell – the ghost of his father's
father's father; his mother's white hair (one
stray thread). Such flimsy evidence! Where
is the grave, now? Where my B-mine gardener?


Lanthanum 3.20


The lover's honey and the scholar's fire
merge in glimmers from a gray wasp's nest –
a bee-forsaken palace in the wilderness,
where Hobo, Blackstone circle round the lair

of their Blue Ox (a Minnesota Minotaur).
Where's Ariadne? In Rhode Island?
With ball of yellow pollen in her hand
like shining honeycomb, or jar of myrrh...

Honey, come home! Come on home, honey!
– my pied pair murmurs, through a subtle
shaft of harness-corridors... a shuttle-
basket, ply on ply. They're history –

a way of stating what cannot be said
(like dream of statehood for the 51st;
somebody's doom-collateral, anonymous;
a sleepy soldier in the garden bed).

But what suits a pedestrian in the Appalachians
is moonshine, home-brewed. That moon road
made of lanthanum, clear across cold
(bull's-eye) Lake Baikal – where a tipsy-

chatterin' sparrow from spare hills
dove once into milky-branching river-light.
Dame Kind refracted in her smile might
lift my water buffalo from Yokum ills –

turn on an Elsie dime, pirhouette gracefully
as Daisy Mae stands beckoning by Abner's Gate.
Rye parish in her gypsy gravity, she'll wait
for that monsoon-pleroma (chartered, Mandalay).


Lanthanum 3.19


All's figures, I figure, augured August, last
of summer's breezy guests. As the phantom
of Hobo's tandem friend, shadow of his random
meandering through primal Providence (Fox Pt.) –

through the Warren-like warren of clapboard
back alleys, and the dapple-sieve of afternoon
sunlight, that slips through Portuguese vine-
trellises, down the backest of ordinary

back streets, the swept-clean simple poverty
of Dove Street (hardly a street at all), where
he dawdled with his flighty Josephine (fair-
dark radiant for circled square – old hoopoe,

he) – lifts his labyrinthine alleyed allegory
(alley-alley-in-free!) toward the unspeakable
unspoken whisper-sense, the wind's own labile
vocable : a sleepy child's soft felt-tip memory

(drawn deep). There, in the mind, like a ruined
concrete cave, it quickens to the unstanched cry
of an old complaint – family quarrel : Bye & Bye,
in the neglected garden; Spy vs. Spy, sustained

by mutual darkness (opportune missed cues
long gone). Across the street, a rose of Sharon
sets its white mandorla in the grass (bloom-rain).
Muttering Hobo's figuring things out. Sez

We cycled through all 50 states, but I ain't seen
nothing like old San Juan for oil & wine – garlic
& jujubees, 2nd-hand bookstores – believe you me

(hic!) as his W wedged in her shadow (pine-green).


Lanthanum 3.18


& Hobo was a Giant in his sleep. Humongous
human, Everyman. Shot-putter of dreams
the length of 50 football fields, he teems,
all tied up in the 9th – filled with resinous

pine-sleep (since that chestnut in his heart
is now all almond, out of hayseed season –
wintering in Florida). Dream beyond reason.
The blue-green needles cling like straw, smart.

& she riddles him with griffin-lore, and tugs
his beard of Samsonite (his bully bulletin-
board, for tool-&-die) and dares him into
a mazy weird (beside the sluggish river Slugs)

eluding him until sundown (& then
she's gone). It was like this every Sunday
50 weeks of years : thinking of Jubilee
he gave away the store (& bought a hen).

You & I, honey – our own sheepish mandorla
door. A guilty thesis wrapped like a trowel
around my droopy hero, while wolves howled
& I's buried in muh work, ma'am. We wore

shin-guards, hoping to redeem our shins –
useful precautions, prognostications, nostrums
up our weary nostrils, endless strums on
tuneless, dog-eared mandolins – rin-tin-din...

The simplest skills seem to leap from our hands.
Technical wizards at burnt rubber, we drove
our first parents (home-made) to the grave –
over here, in Babylon. A ragged willow rings, bands.