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Saturday, March 29, 2008

Fast Day 43 March 29,2008 {Our Lady Of Chimayo}

Anna (and her sisters) are coming off a long winter in the land of long winters. Like we have "Indian Summer", once winter has past its prime in Anna's land, winter returns for a brief visit or two, bringing gifts of snow and ice and grey skies.
So we dedicate this poem to them.

Chimayo is a sanctuary in New Mexico. Starting from Los Alamos where the atomic age was born, descending to the desert into Espanola, the low-rider capital, to the eastern mountains wherein lies Chimayo is about 60 some miles.

Sandia is a mountain.

An acequia is a water-course or aquaduct in the desert.

Chimayo is the locus of miracles, and people who have been cured have left crutches and splints and wheelchairs there.

Our Lady Of Chimayo

He was an acequia
and she a cottonwood tree;
The Lady of the desert placed them
outside the church at Chimayo.

I am rooted in the soil.
What is it to run o'er the earth?
(she looks into the distance)
I see far off within the sky
clouds as big as Sandia,
running faster than a ghost!

I hear your voice in wind and leaf...
I sense small lives upon my course.
From afar, from ridge and mountain top,
I burst free to come to you!

The Lady of Chimayo who stands within
Her holy sanctuary filled with emblems
made from mankind's suffering,
has turned her and him upon Her loom
and wove their souls from cactus fiber,
so that she would not live without his blood,
nor would he flow without her need.

Friday, March 21, 2008

Fast Day 42 March 21, 2008 {Danta Anansazi Hates The World}

(Note: Dante Anansazi is my pet winter spider.)

Dante Anansazi Hates The Whirled

Dante Anansazi sat up one morning
and decided he would destroy the Whirled.
Blond rage danced before his eight eyes
and he grew madder impotently.
As I went to my computer, I saw him
curled trancey-parent wintry spider...
Hey, you got java?
Sure I said. Plenty joe. A cuppa tha black?
Yeah, he answered surly and bewebbed.
So I goes back to the kitchen and grab
an etui that I use fer his coffee,
like a chalice, like an urn
of faience and so p'tit it seems
and so little is Dante A.
Here's yer java, D.A., pal!
I always call him pal, like you know,
ya never know with eight eyed freaks.
Ya put any of the white in here? he ax me
so I say no,no milk; no cream.
We sip our cupl'a cuppas in a silence
and drum our hands upon the tablas
of my patellas broad and hollow.
You guys got it made, Dante sez.
Howzat, sez I. Ya got guns, lotsa guns.
Yeah, I laugh, all god's chillun got guns.
Dante A is quiet for a speckle of time
Ya got nookler guns, too. Nookler rays
that work and kill and maim and leave
lucky little orphans scattered like rice
after a wedding! Man...MAN!
Three legs up and five are down
to emphasize his point of horror:
All the beautiful red is flowing
and running to tha gutters!
Enuff with tha blood, I think, enuff!
He goes quiet and he is thinking.
So I think, hell, man, wha's this crap?
I do not need no eight leg paranoid
goin' Timmy McVeigh on my ass.
So I sez, nookler ain't so hot.
And this get his hairy antenna all atwitter
Sez who? he growls eightfold.
Sez I, I sez. You can control an M-16
but ya cant control them nooks.
Like you nooks, and...blam...all yer
webs and pupae and cocoons...
Here I make a sword-like draw
across my throat, from left to right
my right finger a sharp edged knife,
my neck a bleating calf, and I
the butcher on the limen staring.
Dante Anansazi sez nothing for a while.
Man, he sez at last, getting up to leave,
you humans are some crazy shit!

Saturday, March 15, 2008

Fast Day 41 March 14, 2008 {Looking Forward to Easter 2008}

Nero's Domus Aurea or Golden House reconstructed at Building Virtual Rome

Looking Forward To Easter 2008

When archaeologists of old delights
will find the ruins of all our ancient kisses
and delve into the warrens of this age
and see the mazed foundation our lives:
reconstruct the murals
replumb the obelisk;
and roof the halls of Herculaneum,
and place the bodies at table encaustic.

Shall they then find our candled nights of love
that sparkled like the radyant rising sun?
and drape the scenes with purple porphry sheets
lest we old pagans contravene their faith?
free us from this prison,
and we shall fly away!
and going up to Galilee to see
anew the universal pulchritude!

Nero's Domus Aurea at present

Wednesday, March 12, 2008

Fast Day 40 March 8, 2008 {Let Me Die With The Philistines!}

Let Me Die With The Philistines!

Samson went down to Sorek to rest
after fighting an army with an ass
his jawbone swung like a Vietnam chopper
God, he laid 'em low!

Samson found a lady there whose face
shone with paparazzi flashes
and the E news asked if this was love
for Sammie and Delilah.

Samson went down to Gaza
when he could no longer see;
he plied a bunker-buster bomb on
all of Philistee-yaa!

Samson died with all the gods of the cities
seven of suburban Palestine;
Delilah scaped the murderous sermon
since she did not go to Temple!

When we go blind to Gaza,
after we've lost our sight,
we harvest eleven hundred silver drams
for each life destroyed delight!

O bind me with a bowstring!
O bind me with 7 ropes!
Weave my hair within the fustian linen
of the world's winding!

I shall not brake for children
in the temple's daycare;
let the limestone temple be
the eating box of flesh!

We stood upon the stylobate and pushed
mightily against the shaft;
welcome murdering architraves that metast
the future all our past.

Wednesday, March 5, 2008

Fast Day 39 March 1, 2008 {The Tunisian Lady}

It suddenly dawned on me that in a mere 52-39 = 13 posts yet to come, I shall actually have produced a poem, or something vaguely reminiscent of a poem, at a rate of one per week for an entire year.

Indeed, peace must be just around the corner.

The Tunisian Lady

We students chose to eat like Mamelooks,
the kings, that is, the regents regal
of an Egypt of mediaeval time who
ruled the district, the small villages,
the boundaries rural, the hamlets, and
unnamed dusty children swarming.

Like Baybars we laid siege to Al Ameer's
on Warren and Schaefer and lofted
the Greek fire of our hunger made
sharp by the sight of cultured encampments
and domes of tabbouli and humus, gilded
and stuffed with the spices of shawarma.

Nothing was haraam. Our scholarly
friendship took a zest and scattered fruit
throughout our souls. We talked of husbands
and wives, and hopes and dreams...
poetries and acts of love,astrologies,
fortunetelling...things usually forbidden.

And after eating we sauntered out
like drunken soldiers and reeled in
the late afternoon sun which fired
the asphalt parking lot, exchanging gifts
and cutting up, talking, intermittent
and asking whether dessert would do?

So on to Shatila! The great Bakery Damascene!
Where the tales are spun of wheat and gold;
The great orthodox Baker who ruled the
postprandial circumambulations
of his people with a sweet disguise being
strewn amongst their homely haunts!

The eaves dripped honey.
The pillars were pure sugar encrusted,
standing joyfully like the wife of Lot,
this time obedient to the Lord.
The walls were a nectar tessera
mosaic of luxurious history!

Yet as we broke, yet as we part
the sun had gone and it was dark
with only satisfaction to light the way
into a dim crumbling asphalt...
and immigrant winds insinuated
their way into our clothes.

The teacher found a skull by the side
of the road, against a wall, sitting.
And to it was attached a body
with arms and legs thin as
dowels, or the rudely sculpted wood
of a crumbled marionette.

It was a lady from Tunisia, alive
yet it seems. She had an ancient walker
and she had an outboard crutch.
She stood a rag within the wind
and each of us, the Jamaican, the Syrian
and the native born held our breath.

The teacher spoke to her and discovered
that she was pregnant and had come to the
pharmacy for medicine, where her driver
had abandoned her four or five hours
ago, so she collapsed herself against
the sunny wall and waited.

We drove her home to the basement
where she lived in a neighborhood
of roving dogs and high grass
where landlords wore no shirts
and lanterns were pinchpenny of
their bilious light.

A skull used to be placed upon
the festal table to remind
that life was short and death awaited.
Time flies or seize the day is a slogan
to wear on your lapel.
Of what is Life a symbol?