at Lake Superior,
the buffalo and the Big Trees gone
too. Greed! Mostly, beauty is nostalgia.
The random motes of a rainbow end up
on the garbage heap again. These sticks
which encase the Great Lakes, Jim,
are the Happy Hunting ground for the likes
of you & me. Men picking on the chance
sounds of emptiness. The daily round
of campfire, man and nature, etc. A moon
patient as an escalator, maybe. Its all
been done before, anyhow. What was
that about Indians leaving a flaw in the
fabric for the soul to escape? Ours
is the gift of factory seconds, well-made &
well-meant through to a public we detest
if you think about it. And the quickest way
to solitude is via a four wheel drive, eh?
Theres comfort in that mate, getting out.

Myth & Mariolatry

At a small village not
far from Manila, in the house
of armaments & munitions,
in a house of grenades &
ammunition, the plaster
statue of the Virgin Mary as
humble as a trademark,
stands splashed in carmine
tears like some peasant
shot on a quiet morning bearing
water from the creek.
The hovels strewn about
the hills are so many broken
boxes. The sun is spinning
clockwise for hope. One
cloud out of nowhere & then a
drape of blue that might
be the sky. The gathering of
people is more impressive
than a food drop. They come
at the appointed hour when
the boy who serves as
runner to the Beautiful Lady
arrives, breathless, with
the Word. Occasionally,
the statue weeps paint-fresh
tears. They will leave
once faith is gathered in
abundance like so many wild
flowers off the nearest mountain
slope. Here under a glass
blown moon, a cool wind shall
leave this place sacred.

Stork

The scene is of a deep rural setting done by one unhurried
Impressionist, say, pre-World War 1, c.1907. Everything
luxuriant, soft and round, the paint is combed out by cordial
summer breezes. Countryside: Poland, a rained-on morning,
the distant plash of milk into wooden pails sounds thinner
than its clotted creaminess. The cobbled yard is blue and wet
after the mornings sluicing; alder, elm or poplar windbreaks,
but what shows through is the church spire you would observe
if you lifted your gaze up from the unhitched wagon, its spars
tilted off skyward from the fields, past chimney, gable, and
farmstead. The stork is here on its top (though) bottom heavy
nest of thickly woven twigs which throws the scene into surreal
proportion, suggesting a