Another year gone, leaving everywhere
its rich spiced residues: vines, leaves,

the uneaten fruits crumbling damply
in the shadows, unmattering back

from the particular island
of this summer, this NOW, that now is nowhere

except underfoot, moldering
in that black subterranean castle

of unobservable mysteries - roots and sealed seeds
and the wanderings of water. This

I try to remember when time's measure
painfully chafes, for instance when autumn

flares out at the last, boisterous and like us longing
to stay - how everything lives, shifting

from one bright vision to another, forever
in these momentary pastures.

122

A something in a summer’s Day
As slow her flambeaux burn away
Which solemnizes me.

A something in a summer’s noon—
A depth—an Azure—a perfume—
Transcending ecstasy.

And still within a summer’s night
A something so transporting bright
I clap my hands to see—

Then veil my too inspecting face
Lets such a subtle—shimmering grace
Flutter too far for me—

The wizard fingers never rest—
The purple brook within the breast
Still chafes it narrow bed—

Still rears the East her amber Flag—
Guides still the sun along the Crag
His Caravan of Red—

So looking on—the night—the morn
Conclude the wonder gay—
And I meet, coming thro’ the dews
Another summer’s Day!

Now the other gods and the armed warriors on the plain slept
soundly, but Jove was wakeful, for he was thinking how to do honour to
Achilles, and destroyed much people at the ships of the Achaeans. In
the end he deemed it would be best to send a lying dream to King
Agamemnon; so he called one to him and said to it, “Lying Dream, go to
the ships of the Achaeans, into the tent of Agamemnon, and say to
him word to word as I now bid you. Tell him to get the Achaeans
instantly under arms, for he shall take Troy. There are no longer
divided counsels among the gods; Juno has brought them to her own
mind, and woe betides the Trojans.”
  The dream went when it had heard its message, and soon reached the
ships of the Achaeans. It sought Agamemnon son of Atreus and found him
in his tent, wrapped in a profound slumber. It hovered over his head
in the likeness of Nestor, son of Neleus, whom Agamemnon honoured
above all his councillors, and said:-
  “You are sleeping, son of Atreus; one who has the welfare of his
host and so much other care upon his shoulders should dock his
sleep. Hear me at once, for I come as a messenger from Jove, who,
though he be not near, yet takes thought for you and pities you. He
bids you get the Achaeans instantly under arms, for you shall take
Troy. There are no longer divided counsels among the gods; Juno has
brought them over to her own mind, and woe betides the Trojans at
the hands of Jove. Remember this, and when you wake see that it does
not escape you.”
  The dream then left him, and he thought of things that were,
surely not to be accomplished. He thought that on that same day he was
to take the city of Priam, but he little knew what was in the mind
of Jove, who had many another hard-fought fight in store alike for
Danaans and Trojans. Then presently he woke, with the divine message
still ringing in his ears; so he sat upright, and put on his soft
shirt so fair and new, and over this his heavy cloak. He bound his
sandals on to his comely feet, and slung his silver-studded sword
about his shoulders; then he took the imperishable staff of his
father, and sallied forth to the ships of the Achaeans.
  The goddess Dawn now wended her way to vast Olympus that she might
herald day to Jove and to the other immortals, and Agamemnon sent
the criers round to call the people in assembly; so they called them
and the people gathered thereon. But first he summoned a meeting of
the elders at the ship of Nestor king of Pylos, and when they were
assembled he laid a cunning counsel before them.
  “My friends,” said he, “I have had a dream from heaven in the dead
of night, and its face and figure resembled none but Nestor’s. It
hovered over my head and said, ‘You are sleeping, son of Atreus; one
who has the welfare of his host and so much other care upon his
shoulders should dock his sleep. Hear me at once, for I am a messenger
from Jove, who, though he be not near, yet takes thought for you and
pities you. He bids you get the Achaeans instantly under arms, for you
shall take Troy. There are no longer divided counsels among the
gods; Juno has brought them over to her own mind, and woe betides
the Trojans at the hands of Jove. Remember this.’ The dream then
vanished and I awoke. Let us now, therefore, arm the sons of the
Achaeans. But it will be well that I should first sound them, and to
this end I will tell them to fly with their ships; but do you others
go about among the host and prevent their doing so.”
  He then sat down, and Nestor the prince of Pylos with all
sincerity and goodwill addressed them thus: “My friends,” said he,
“princes and councillors of the Argives, if any other man of the
Achaeans had told us of this dream we should have declared it false,
and would have had nothing to do with it. But he who has seen it is
the foremost man among us; we must therefore set about getting the
people under arms.”
  With this he led the way from the assembly, and the other sceptred
kings rose with him in obedience to the word of Agamemnon; but the
people pressed forward to hear. They swarmed like bees that sally from
some hollow cave and flit in countless throng among the spring
flowers, bunched in knots and clusters; even so did the mighty
multitude pour from ships and tents to the assembly, and range
themselves upon the wide-watered shore, while among them ran
Wildfire Rumour, messenger of Jove, urging them ever to the fore. Thus
they gathered in a pell-mell of mad confusion, and the earth groaned
under the ***** of men as the people sought their places. Nine heralds
went crying about among them to stay their tumult and bid them
listen to the kings, till at last they were got into their several
places and ceased their clamour. Then King Agamemnon rose, holding his
sceptre. This was the work of Vulcan, who gave it to Jove the son of
Saturn. Jove gave it to Mercury, slayer of Argus, guide and
guardian. King Mercury gave it to Pelops, the mighty charioteer, and
Pelops to Atreus, shepherd of his people. Atreus, when he died, left
it to Thyestes, rich in flocks, and Thyestes in his turn left it to be
borne by Agamemnon, that he might be lord of all Argos and of the
isles. Leaning, then, on his sceptre, he addressed the Argives.
  “My friends,” he said, “heroes, servants of Mars, the hand of heaven
has been laid heavily upon me. Cruel Jove gave me his solemn promise
that I should sack the city of Priam before returning, but he has
played me false, and is now bidding me go ingloriously back to Argos
with the loss of much people. Such is the will of Jove, who has laid
many a proud city in the dust, as he will yet lay others, for his
power is above all. It will be a sorry tale hereafter that an
Achaean host, at once so great and valiant, battled in vain against
men fewer in number than themselves; but as yet the end is not in
sight. Think that the Achaeans and Trojans have sworn to a solemn
covenant, and that they have each been numbered—the Trojans by the
roll of their householders, and we by companies of ten; think
further that each of our companies desired to have a Trojan
householder to pour out their wine; we are so greatly more in number
that full many a company would have to go without its cup-bearer.
But they have in the town allies from other places, and it is these
that hinder me from being able to sack the rich city of Ilius. Nine of
Jove years are gone; the timbers of our ships have rotted; their
tackling is sound no longer. Our wives and little ones at home look
anxiously for our coming, but the work that we came hither to do has
not been done. Now, therefore, let us all do as I say: let us sail
back to our own land, for we shall not take Troy.”
  With these words he moved the hearts of the multitude, so many of
them as knew not the cunning counsel of Agamemnon. They surged to
and fro like the waves of the Icarian Sea, when the east and south
winds break from heaven’s clouds to lash them; or as when the west
wind sweeps over a field of corn and the ears bow beneath the blast,
even so were they swayed as they flew with loud cries towards the
ships, and the dust from under their feet rose heavenward. They
cheered each other on to draw the ships into the sea; they cleared the
channels in front of them; they began taking away the stays from
underneath them, and the welkin rang with their glad cries, so eager
were they to return.
  Then surely the Argives would have returned after a fashion that was
not fated. But Juno said to Minerva, “Alas, daughter of
aegis-bearing Jove, unweariable, shall the Argives fly home to their
own land over the broad sea, and leave Priam and the Trojans the glory
of still keeping Helen, for whose sake so many of the Achaeans have
died at Troy, far from their homes? Go about at once among the host,
and speak fairly to them, man by man, that they draw not their ships
into the sea.”
  Minerva was not slack to do her bidding. Down she darted from the
topmost summits of Olympus, and in a moment she was at the ships of
the Achaeans. There she found Ulysses, peer of Jove in counsel,
standing alone. He had not as yet laid a hand upon his ship, for he
was grieved and sorry; so she went close up to him and said, “Ulysses,
noble son of Laertes, are you going to fling yourselves into your
ships and be off home to your own land in this way? Will you leave
Priam and the Trojans the glory of still keeping Helen, for whose sake
so many of the Achaeans have died at Troy, far from their homes? Go
about at once among the host, and speak fairly to them, man by man,
that they draw not their ships into the sea.”
  Ulysses knew the voice as that of the goddess: he flung his cloak
from him and set off to run. His servant Eurybates, a man of Ithaca,
who waited on him, took charge of the cloak, whereon Ulysses went
straight up to Agamemnon and received from him his ancestral,
imperishable staff. With this he went about among the ships of the
Achaeans.
  Whenever he met a king or chieftain, he stood by him and spoke him
fairly. “Sir,” said he, “this flight is cowardly and unworthy. Stand
to your post, and bid your people also keep their places. You do not
yet know the full mind of Agamemnon; he was sounding us, and ere
long will visit the Achaeans with his displeasure. We were not all
of us at the council to hear what he then said; see to it lest he be
angry and do us a mischief; for the pride of kings is great, and the
hand of Jove is with them.”
  But when he came across any common man who was making a noise, he
struck him with his staff and rebuked him, saying, “Sirrah, hold
your peace, and listen to better men than yourself. You are a coward
and no soldier; you are nobody either in fight or council; we cannot
all be kings; it is not well that there should be many masters; one
man must be supreme—one king to whom the son of scheming Saturn has
given the sceptre of sovereignty over you all.”
  Thus masterfully did he go about among the host, and the people
hurried back to the council from their tents and ships with a sound as
the thunder of surf when it comes crashing down upon the shore, and
all the sea is in an uproar.
  The rest now took their seats and kept to their own several
places, but Thersites still went on wagging his unbridled tongue—a
man of many words, and those unseemly; a monger of sedition, a
railer against all who were in authority, who cared not what he
said, so that he might set the Achaeans in a laugh. He was the ugliest
man of all those that came before Troy—bandy-legged, lame of one
foot, with his two shoulders rounded and hunched over his chest. His
head ran up to a point, but there was little hair on the top of it.
Achilles and Ulysses hated him worst of all, for it was with them that
he was most wont to wrangle; now, however, with a shrill squeaky voice
he began heaping his abuse on Agamemnon. The Achaeans were angry and
disgusted, yet none the less he kept on brawling and bawling at the
son of Atreus.
  “Agamemnon,” he cried, “what ails you now, and what more do you
want? Your tents are filled with bronze and with fair women, for
whenever we take a town we give you the pick of them. Would you have
yet more gold, which some Trojan is to give you as a ransom for his
son, when I or another Achaean has taken him prisoner? or is it some
young girl to hide and lie with? It is not well that you, the ruler of
the Achaeans, should bring them into such misery. Weakling cowards,
women rather than men, let us sail home, and leave this fellow here at
Troy to stew in his own meeds of honour, and discover whether we
were of any service to him or no. Achilles is a much better man than
he is, and see how he has treated him—robbing him of his prize and
keeping it himself. Achilles takes it meekly and shows no fight; if he
did, son of Atreus, you would never again insult him.”
  Thus railed Thersites, but Ulysses at once went up to him and
rebuked him sternly. “Check your glib tongue, Thersites,” said be,
“and babble not a word further. Chide not with princes when you have
none to back you. There is no viler creature come before Troy with the
sons of Atreus. Drop this chatter about kings, and neither revile them
nor keep harping about going home. We do not yet know how things are
going to be, nor whether the Achaeans are to return with good
success or evil. How dare you gibe at Agamemnon because the Danaans
have awarded him so many prizes? I tell you, therefore—and it shall
surely be—that if I again catch you talking such nonsense, I will
either forfeit my own head and be no more called father of Telemachus,
or I will take you, strip you stark naked, and whip you out of the
assembly till you go blubbering back to the ships.”
  On this he beat him with his staff about the back and shoulders till
he dropped and fell a-weeping. The golden sceptre raised a ****** weal
on his back, so he sat down frightened and in pain, looking foolish as
he wiped the tears from his eyes. The people were sorry for him, yet
they laughed heartily, and one would turn to his neighbour saying,
“Ulysses has done many a good thing ere now in fight and council,
but he never did the Argives a better turn than when he stopped this
fellow’s mouth from prating further. He will give the kings no more of
his insolence.”
  Thus said the people. Then Ulysses rose, sceptre in hand, and
Minerva in the likeness of a herald bade the people be still, that
those who were far off might hear him and consider his council. He
therefore with all sincerity and goodwill addressed them thus:-
  “King Agamemnon, the Achaeans are for making you a by-word among all
mankind. They forget the promise they made you when they set out
from Argos, that you should not return till you had sacked the town of
Troy, and, like children or widowed women, they murmur and would set
off homeward. True it is that they have had toil enough to be
disheartened. A man chafes at having to stay away from his wife even
for a single month, when he is on shipboard, at the mercy of wind
and sea, but it is now nine long years that we have been kept here;
I cannot, therefore, blame the Achaeans if they turn restive; still we
shall be shamed if we go home empty after so long a stay—therefore,
my friends, be patient yet a little longer that we may learn whether
the prophesyings of Calchas were false or true.
  “All who have not since perished must remember as though it were
yesterday or the day before, how the ships of the Achaeans were
detained in Aulis when we were on our way hither to make war on
Priam and the Trojans. We were ranged round about a fountain
offering hecatombs to the gods upon their holy altars, and there was a
fine plane-tree from beneath which there welled a stream of pure
water. Then we saw a prodigy; for Jove sent a fearful serpent out of
the ground, with blood-red stains upon its back, and it darted from
under the altar on to the plane-tree. Now there was a brood of young
sparrows, quite small, upon the topmost bough, peeping out from
under the leaves, eight in all, and their mother that hatched them
made nine. The serpent ate the poor cheeping things, while the old
bird flew about lamenting her little ones; but the serpent threw his
coils about her and caught her by the wing as she was screaming. Then,
when he had eaten both the sparrow and her young, the god who had sent
him made him become a sign; for the son of scheming Saturn turned
him into stone, and we stood there wondering at that which had come to
pass. Seeing, then, that such a fearful portent had broken in upon our
hecatombs, Calchas forthwith declared to us the oracles of heaven.
‘Why, Achaeans,’ said he, ‘are you thus speechless? Jove has sent us
this sign, long in coming, and long ere it be fulfilled, though its
fame shall last for ever. As the serpent ate the eight fledglings
and the sparrow that hatched them, which makes nine, so shall we fight
nine years at Troy, but in the tenth shall take the town.’ This was
what he said, and now it is all coming true. Stay here, therefore, all
of you, till we take the city of Priam.”
  On this the Argives raised a shout, till the ships rang again with
the uproar. Nestor, knight of Gere

Ulysses was left in the cloister, pondering on the means whereby
with Minerva’s help he might be able to **** the suitors. Presently he
said to Telemachus, “Telemachus, we must get the armour together and
take it down inside. Make some excuse when the suitors ask you why you
have removed it. Say that you have taken it to be out of the way of
the smoke, inasmuch as it is no longer what it was when Ulysses went
away, but has become soiled and begrimed with soot. Add to this more
particularly that you are afraid Jove may set them on to quarrel
over their wine, and that they may do each other some harm which may
disgrace both banquet and wooing, for the sight of arms sometimes
tempts people to use them.”
  Telemachus approved of what his father had said, so he called
nurse Euryclea and said, “Nurse, shut the women up in their room,
while I take the armour that my father left behind him down into the
store room. No one looks after it now my father is gone, and it has
got all smirched with soot during my own boyhood. I want to take it
down where the smoke cannot reach it.”
  “I wish, child,” answered Euryclea, “that you would take the
management of the house into your own hands altogether, and look after
all the property yourself. But who is to go with you and light you
to the store room? The maids would have so, but you would not let
them.
  “The stranger,” said Telemachus, “shall show me a light; when people
eat my bread they must earn it, no matter where they come from.”
  Euryclea did as she was told, and bolted the women inside their
room. Then Ulysses and his son made all haste to take the helmets,
shields, and spears inside; and Minerva went before them with a gold
lamp in her hand that shed a soft and brilliant radiance, whereon
Telemachus said, “Father, my eyes behold a great marvel: the walls,
with the rafters, crossbeams, and the supports on which they rest
are all aglow as with a flaming fire. Surely there is some god here
who has come down from heaven.”
  “Hush,” answered Ulysses, “hold your peace and ask no questions, for
this is the manner of the gods. Get you to your bed, and leave me here
to talk with your mother and the maids. Your mother in her grief
will ask me all sorts of questions.”
  On this Telemachus went by torch-light to the other side of the
inner court, to the room in which he always slept. There he lay in his
bed till morning, while Ulysses was left in the cloister pondering
on the means whereby with Minerva’s help he might be able to ****
the suitors.
  Then Penelope came down from her room looking like Venus or Diana,
and they set her a seat inlaid with scrolls of silver and ivory near
the fire in her accustomed place. It had been made by Icmalius and had
a footstool all in one piece with the seat itself; and it was
covered with a thick fleece: on this she now sat, and the maids came
from the women’s room to join her. They set about removing the
tables at which the wicked suitors had been dining, and took away
the bread that was left, with the cups from which they had drunk. They
emptied the embers out of the braziers, and heaped much wood upon them
to give both light and heat; but Melantho began to rail at Ulysses a
second time and said, “Stranger, do you mean to plague us by hanging
about the house all night and spying upon the women? Be off, you
wretch, outside, and eat your supper there, or you shall be driven out
with a firebrand.”
  Ulysses scowled at her and answered, “My good woman, why should
you be so angry with me? Is it because I am not clean, and my
clothes are all in rags, and because I am obliged to go begging
about after the manner of tramps and beggars generall? I too was a
rich man once, and had a fine house of my own; in those days I gave to
many a ***** such as I now am, no matter who he might be nor what he
wanted. I had any number of servants, and all the other things which
people have who live well and are accounted wealthy, but it pleased
Jove to take all away from me; therefore, woman, beware lest you too
come to lose that pride and place in which you now wanton above your
fellows; have a care lest you get out of favour with your mistress,
and lest Ulysses should come home, for there is still a chance that he
may do so. Moreover, though he be dead as you think he is, yet by
Apollo’s will he has left a son behind him, Telemachus, who will
note anything done amiss by the maids in the house, for he is now no
longer in his boyhood.”
  Penelope heard what he was saying and scolded the maid, “Impudent
baggage, said she, “I see how abominably you are behaving, and you
shall smart for it. You knew perfectly well, for I told you myself,
that I was going to see the stranger and ask him about my husband, for
whose sake I am in such continual sorrow.”
  Then she said to her head waiting woman Eurynome, “Bring a seat with
a fleece upon it, for the stranger to sit upon while he tells his
story, and listens to what I have to say. I wish to ask him some
questions.”
  Eurynome brought the seat at once and set a fleece upon it, and as
soon as Ulysses had sat down Penelope began by saying, “Stranger, I
shall first ask you who and whence are you? Tell me of your town and
parents.”
  “Madam;” answered Ulysses, “who on the face of the whole earth can
dare to chide with you? Your fame reaches the firmament of heaven
itself; you are like some blameless king, who upholds righteousness,
as the monarch over a great and valiant nation: the earth yields its
wheat and barley, the trees are loaded with fruit, the ewes bring
forth lambs, and the sea abounds with fish by reason of his virtues,
and his people do good deeds under him. Nevertheless, as I sit here in
your house, ask me some other question and do not seek to know my race
and family, or you will recall memories that will yet more increase my
sorrow. I am full of heaviness, but I ought not to sit weeping and
wailing in another person’s house, nor is it well to be thus
grieving continually. I shall have one of the servants or even
yourself complaining of me, and saying that my eyes swim with tears
because I am heavy with wine.”
  Then Penelope answered, “Stranger, heaven robbed me of all beauty,
whether of face or figure, when the Argives set sail for Troy and my
dear husband with them. If he were to return and look after my affairs
I should be both more respected and should show a better presence to
the world. As it is, I am oppressed with care, and with the
afflictions which heaven has seen fit to heap upon me. The chiefs from
all our islands—Dulichium, Same, and Zacynthus, as also from Ithaca
itself, are wooing me against my will and are wasting my estate. I can
therefore show no attention to strangers, nor suppliants, nor to
people who say that they are skilled artisans, but am all the time
brokenhearted about Ulysses. They want me to marry again at once,
and I have to invent stratagems in order to deceive them. In the first
place heaven put it in my mind to set up a great tambour-frame in my
room, and to begin working upon an enormous piece of fine
needlework. Then I said to them, ‘Sweethearts, Ulysses is indeed dead,
still, do not press me to marry again immediately; wait—for I would
not have my skill in needlework perish unrecorded—till I have
finished making a pall for the hero Laertes, to be ready against the
time when death shall take him. He is very rich, and the women of
the place will talk if he is laid out without a pall.’ This was what I
said, and they assented; whereon I used to keep working at my great
web all day long, but at night I would unpick the stitches again by
torch light. I fooled them in this way for three years without their
finding it out, but as time wore on and I was now in my fourth year,
in the waning of moons, and many days had been accomplished, those
good-for-nothing hussies my maids betrayed me to the suitors, who
broke in upon me and caught me; they were very angry with me, so I was
forced to finish my work whether I would or no. And now I do not see
how I can find any further shift for getting out of this marriage.
My parents are putting great pressure upon me, and my son chafes at
the ravages the suitors are making upon his estate, for he is now
old enough to understand all about it and is perfectly able to look
after his own affairs, for heaven has blessed him with an excellent
disposition. Still, notwithstanding all this, tell me who you are
and where you come from—for you must have had father and mother of
some sort; you cannot be the son of an oak or of a rock.”
  Then Ulysses answered, “madam, wife of Ulysses, since you persist in
asking me about my family, I will answer, no matter what it costs
me: people must expect to be pained when they have been exiles as long
as I have, and suffered as much among as many peoples. Nevertheless,
as regards your question I will tell you all you ask. There is a
fair and fruitful island in mid-ocean called Crete; it is thickly
peopled and there are nine cities in it: the people speak many
different languages which overlap one another, for there are Achaeans,
brave Eteocretans, Dorians of three-fold race, and noble Pelasgi.
There is a great town there, Cnossus, where Minos reigned who every
nine years had a conference with Jove himself. Minos was father to
Deucalion, whose son I am, for Deucalion had two sons Idomeneus and
myself. Idomeneus sailed for Troy, and I, who am the younger, am
called Aethon; my brother, however, was at once the older and the more
valiant of the two; hence it was in Crete that I saw Ulysses and
showed him hospitality, for the winds took him there as he was on
his way to Troy, carrying him out of his course from cape Malea and
leaving him in Amnisus off the cave of Ilithuia, where the harbours
are difficult to enter and he could hardly find shelter from the winds
that were then xaging. As soon as he got there he went into the town
and asked for Idomeneus, claiming to be his old and valued friend, but
Idomeneus had already set sail for Troy some ten or twelve days
earlier, so I took him to my own house and showed him every kind of
hospitality, for I had abundance of everything. Moreover, I fed the
men who were with him with barley meal from the public store, and
got subscriptions of wine and oxen for them to sacrifice to their
heart’s content. They stayed with me twelve days, for there was a gale
blowing from the North so strong that one could hardly keep one’s feet
on land. I suppose some unfriendly god had raised it for them, but
on the thirteenth day the wind dropped, and they got away.”
  Many a plausible tale did Ulysses further tell her, and Penelope
wept as she listened, for her heart was melted. As the snow wastes
upon the mountain tops when the winds from South East and West have
breathed upon it and thawed it till the rivers run bank full with
water, even so did her cheeks overflow with tears for the husband
who was all the time sitting by her side. Ulysses felt for her and was
for her, but he kept his eyes as hard as or iron without letting
them so much as quiver, so cunningly did he restrain his tears.
Then, when she had relieved herself by weeping, she turned to him
again and said: “Now, stranger, I shall put you to the test and see
whether or no you really did entertain my husband and his men, as
you say you did. Tell me, then, how he was dressed, what kind of a man
he was to look at, and so also with his companions.”
  “Madam,” answered Ulysses, “it is such a long time ago that I can
hardly say. Twenty years are come and gone since he left my home,
and went elsewhither; but I will tell you as well as I can
recollect. Ulysses wore a mantle of purple wool, double lined, and
it was fastened by a gold brooch with two catches for the pin. On
the face of this there was a device that showed a dog holding a
spotted fawn between his fore paws, and watching it as it lay
panting upon the ground. Every one marvelled at the way in which these
things had been done in gold, the dog looking at the fawn, and
strangling it, while the fawn was struggling convulsively to escape.
As for the shirt that he wore next his skin, it was so soft that it
fitted him like the skin of an onion, and glistened in the sunlight to
the admiration of all the women who beheld it. Furthermore I say,
and lay my saying to your heart, that I do not know whether Ulysses
wore these clothes when he left home, or whether one of his companions
had given them to him while he was on his voyage; or possibly some one
at whose house he was staying made him a present of them, for he was a
man of many friends and had few equals among the Achaeans. I myself
gave him a sword of bronze and a beautiful purple mantle, double
lined, with a shirt that went down to his feet, and I sent him on
board his ship with every mark of honour. He had a servant with him, a
little older than himself, and I can tell you what he was like; his
shoulders were hunched, he was dark, and he had thick curly hair.
His name was Eurybates, and Ulysses treated him with greater
familiarity than he did any of the others, as being the most
like-minded with himself.”
  Penelope was moved still more deeply as she heard the indisputable
proofs that Ulysses laid before her; and when she had again found
relief in tears she said to him, “Stranger, I was already disposed
to pity you, but henceforth you shall be honoured and made welcome
in my house. It was I who gave Ulysses the clothes you speak of. I
took them out of the store room and folded them up myself, and I
gave him also the gold brooch to wear as an ornament. Alas! I shall
never welcome him home again. It was by an ill fate that he ever set
out for that detested city whose very name I cannot bring myself
even to mention.”
  Then Ulysses answered, “Madam, wife of Ulysses, do not disfigure
yourself further by grieving thus bitterly for your loss, though I can
hardly blame you for doing so. A woman who has loved her husband and
borne him children, would naturally be grieved at losing him, even
though he were a worse man than Ulysses, who they say was like a
god. Still, cease your tears and listen to what I can tell I will hide
nothing from you, and can say with perfect truth that I have lately
heard of Ulysses as being alive and on his way home; he is among the
Thesprotians, and is bringing back much valuable treasure that he
has begged from one and another of them; but his ship and all his crew
were lost as they were leaving the Thrinacian island, for Jove and the
sun-god were angry with him because his men had slaughtered the
sun-god’s cattle, and they were all drowned to a man. But Ulysses
stuck to the keel of the ship and was drifted on to the land of the
Phaecians, who are near of kin to the immortals, and who treated him
as though he had been a god, giving him many presents, and wishing
to escort him home safe and sound. In fact Ulysses would have been
here long ago, had he not thought better to go from land to land
gathering wealth; for there is no man living who is so wily as he
is; there is no one can compare with him. Pheidon king of the
Thesprotians told me all this, and he swore to me—making
drink-offerings in his house as he did so—that the ship was by the
water side and the crew found who would take Ulysses to his own
country. He sent me off first, for there happened to be a
Thesprotian ship sailing for the wheat-growing island of Dulichium,
but he showed me all treasure Ulysses had got together, and he had
enough lying in the house of king Pheidon to keep his family for ten
generations; but the king said Ulysses had gone to Dodona that he
might learn Jove’s mind from the high oak tree, and know whether after
so long an absence he should return to Ithaca openly or in secret.
So you may know he is safe and will be here shortly; he is close at
hand and cannot remain away from home much longer; nevertheless I will
confirm my words with an oath, and call Jove who is the first and
mightiest of all gods to witness, as also that hearth of Ulysses to
which I have now come, that all I have spoken shall surely come to
pass. Ulysses will return in this self same year; with the end of this
moon and the beginning of the next he will b

Every hour of every day,
In some clichéd way,
I think of you
At least twice.

I’m a friend,
I know.
You say it too much,
It chafes me raw.

Are you really that dense?  
Or maybe it’s a ruse,
A system you’ve devised
To keep me at bay,
Because you just don’t feel
The same way.

I’m crazy about you,
I admit,
If you saw me now,
You’d recognize the guilt,
Brightly scrawled across my face,
Like a neon sign:

The coffee, the talks, the long walks?
All excuses,
Preambles for profound, passionate *******,
That never materialized.

I don’t think it ever will.

Adieu!  Farewell my friend,  
I wish you all of life’s best,
I’ll cross the sea to forget you and rest,
Sail somewhere faraway,
Like Portugal or Paraguay.

Then,
On a lonely afternoon,
You’ll phone for yet
Another friendly talk,
Expecting me – your anchor, your rock,  
Steam will blow out your ears hissing:
‘She is missing!  She is missing!’

Will you sigh and say,
‘Ah!  My Love has gone away’?

If the universe is expanding and
All is in flight from the center outwards,
If what is close soon shall be far;

If all is slowing by miniscule degrees
Until the whole **** lot is frozen;
If every thriving life will cool; if I am
Mistaken and you are not the fool
I hoped you were; if you are;

If, in the vast ending of this story,
It is not the plot but the syntax
That chafes against you;

If you are a mad creature,
A dissonance in the hum,
If you can be defined by your name,
And you think there is anything to be gained
In your coming to the front lines,

If you think you can slow the creeping cold
Of mumbled words and sideways glances,
If you will not be cowed or numbed -
Gather your things, say your goodbyes
And come.

Sweat and rubber
Chafes against my toes
Polish chipped like a porcelain doll
Hurling juvenile patter around
Like drops of sweet rain
Cooling the smouldering tirade
Flying on horseback
Wind twirling non-existing
Scalding coils spurt up limbs
Bubbling out in incandescent mirth
Linking and tripping
Stumbling doggedly along
Ridged gelatinous arcs
Superior to the first incline
Propelling ever up

An army of little girls
poke dandelions through the skin of
every man who could hurt them.

Blades in a briefcase, hide several
between their legs
until the wetness chafes her

right where the dark funnels
stop. The big people and his crosses –
armpits made of porcelain then dug

into little girl gardens,
a meadow of dandelions scrawled:
we do not give you ourselves

but we will give you our blood.
Their masculine fingers could not win,
too harsh for bald skinned little girls.

cure yourself by finding another boy, one who wants to hold
your fingers as you lose yourself in flaxen
starlights.
cure yourself by singing until your throat chafes
like sandpaper.
cure yourself by telling yourself that you are the moon,
and the moon is you, and she is laughing with you,
shining for you, waiting for you to glimmer.
cure yourself by finding the right people, the ones who
grasp you with splintered paws and souls
searching for whatever tastes like bubblegum.
darling, you won’t be cured right away,
take it day by day, hour by hour, minute by minute,
don’t forget to watch the sun
rise, to smell the coffee with shaky fingers.
cure yourself by watching the cream dance with the
shadows.
bruises are only
temporary.

In times when the heart is lodged
somewhere between the brain and the throat
I try to force it back
down to its chambers, before I choke,
or before it strangles my head's precious, antagonized gland.

There's only one way to avoid
certain tragedy, and that's to look, feel, taste.
It's either make mental tracks-
run and jump- or drown.

It's at these moments when I start
playing tricks on my mind.
Doing this is easier than you may think.
Just stop all thought,
for the mind's constant churning
chafes the heart.

Now, allow your hungry eyes to sidle
to and fro- let them wander-
dare to wonder about what hasn't,
but don't idle even for a minute
on what has, or what couldn't.

As long as you can avoid relapse,
you might even venture into what could,
as long as it's new and fresh.
As long as it isn't some woeful inquiry
growing stale since last night.

Then once you find yourself daydreaming,
or better yet, DOING,
you are halfway there.
You've made it uphill
and only need to coast down-
down the lovely unkempt *****
of impulse without crashing.

Do something new,
preferrably silly- stay
away from dangerous-
go somewhere new,
talk to a stranger,
eat something expensive,
drink a little, burp loudly.

Go wild, steer away from crazy,
but cruise through hilarity.
Bombard yourself with creative juices,
**** your phone,
bury your watch,
put on your shoes and let yourself laugh.

Once you've had some laughs,
cue up some Planet Earth
-Kung Fu's good too-
roll a joint.
Smoke it.
Grab a pizza,
fall asleep with the television on
then wake up with a smile on your face.
Trust me, it won't come off in the shower,
and trust me your heart's ok.
You're gonna be just fine.

strip me of the defenses i wear
to protect myself from the cold
shoulders, the wicked stares
slip the armor from my speech
and reassure me
that i do not need it here,
past the judgment of the daytime

take the stony demeanor
from where it chafes against
my soft skin-
let it lay, discarded,
on the floor with my guardedness,
my cynicism
let me be the angel
i have learned to smother
let me spread my wings
without bruising them
on mankind's abrasive habits

here, where sin is not forgiven
but rather accepted
have me whole and nothing more
with no more negative
space-
in this room,
mold me, with accepting hands,
into what i always was
into something small, something
honest, something trusting

let me let my guard down

I tread on the tightrope
Suspended between thinking too little
And thinking too much

I balance precariously
Tiptoeing towards optimism
But humanity sways me
And I shakily creep
Towards despair

The costume chafes
There is not enough chalk on my shoe
The lights are too bright
And a pearly bead of self-awareness
Trickles past my temple
And drips on the dirt baseness
A thousand feet below

And yet--

The crowd smiles
And gasps
And cheers
And claps
And I am reminded
That everything
Is a show

So I smile
And I bow
With a flourish
And I soak in the adoration

And try to forget
That the struggle repeats
Each night
In each town

But the show can
And does
Go on

Once again I’ll blame the weather
that I can’t get it all together
and wrap the tethered, skimpy shawl
of concentration around my mind
Frustration penetrates in the wind
and chafes away with hourglass Time -
who falling tactless through the illusion
tries to
                         b
                             u                Me          
                           r                                  alive.
                     ­         y

We're taught to move on,
To be strong!
Shake it off, champ!
You'll get 'em next time!

Except this isn't a ******* baseball game is it?

These losses aren't ephemeral,
And loving the ghost of someone,
Is like dragging a cinder block
Tied around your neck

Your delicate skin chafes, tears and bleeds,
And as you gag,
Perhaps you wish you'd find yourself
In a lake with that cinder block

Gurgling, staring eyes wide
At the block to do something!
Haven't you loved it so?
Bubbles rise.

Fade to black and remember
Your thankless love,
Remember how you held this torch,
And became a martyr for no one

Sigh
I wish he was here

Sigh
He won't leave I fear

Sigh
You wont believe what was said

Sigh
It's easy to slander the dead

Sigh
What it is to be warm

Sigh
To feel without scorn

Sigh
The need to be safe

Sigh
An embrace that chafes

Sigh
Where are we now

Sigh
No feilds to plow

Sigh
Wrap yours arms around me

Sigh
We'll  be what we want to be

Laugh
Happieness, a piece

Laugh
Freedom of release

genius is snapping at my dragons. feel free to ask them. they’ll barter hard tongues
and won't apologize for mad hatters. but this. This matters.
it ungathers. It unravels and the sunscape chafes on the void's tatters.
but it rathers you know me now,
than meet me at crossroads.
it's your call.

come
from your unexamined life
and be sitting with your eyes
like two mouths.
they will speak when spoken two;
when i give you all...
and you want me
too.

hello. my name is unsung. and That's the song.
don't get me wrong; but right your vessel -
and
this ocean will float your devils
with your nephelim. with your unbridled elan.
be sweet. keep your feet unplanted, but be enchanted by the road you're on.
find me in the thicket of unbearable seeing.
you will be me -
for the moment you release
' things '
and imprison Nothing.
of course
you'll need a cauldron
to rehearse your heresies
as often.

may i suggest
a new
guess ?

a question that suits you
better than " what the **** ? "

and has feathers ?

can we do that
and love each
other ?

In my own skin,
I fit like a glove.
In my own skin,
I look as I always have.
In my own skin,
I look in the mirror
And see someone unfamiliar.

I slip into my skin,
And it irritates my entire being.
I slip into my skin,
And I feel like I’m sinking.
I slip into my skin,
And for so long I wriggle
In order to lessen the struggle.

I move in my skin,
And the material chafes all over.
I move in my skin,
And the resistance grows stronger.
I move in my skin,
And it doesn’t seem changed at all
To those who don’t look and never see me fall.

In my own skin,
I fit like a glove.
In my own skin,
I look as I always have.
In my own skin,
I’m screaming for my life,
and no one’s here to listen.

the crust on the bread we break
chafes the palm homely
as we twist the loaf of our repast
releasing the heat of hot embers
growling in the brick womb
of our rustic ovens...
crumbling aglow, after the dough
has risen like a Christ
to a crisp.
long after the yeast has spat hollows
in the flesh of our sour toast.
it burns unburdened
beneath a barren  grill, inconsolable.
croaking smoke and ash.
pitching cinders up the plume
Promethean.

it is the morning.

so our wolves will have
their rabbits
as our pendulums,
our mortality.

but the feast is not our bread...
it's the crumbs.

Sometimes
When the moon is up
I think of you,
More
Than when it isn't.
Out of a sense of fear
More so
Than anything else.
A security blanket.
Under that blanket
We'll hide.
You'll reach far down  near me
and
Touch glazed candies
and
Pull away shy,
because you don't understand why you did.
We'll bury ourselves deeper into the
Fabric squares our families made us into.
We'll make ourselves comfortable to
the texture and the sounds they make
When it chafes our skin and nails.
The doors will open,
hallway lights will prey on the dark and
We'll snicker rubbing our toes together.

The wistful wind tugs at me,
Willing me to come out and play.
I can see it tickling the barren November branches,
See its aftermath in the chaos of crunchy leaves.
Cotton-tail clouds yield before it,
And it wriggles into the core of flustered students,
Who flee from it and clasp their jackets more tightly about them.
I embrace the breeze, its chill enveloping and ensnaring me.
It brings moisture to my eyes and chafes my chapping lips,
Yet it is within this maelstrom that I am reminded of my own vitality.
I am hyper-aware of my own temperature,
98.6 in stark contrast to its harsh ice.
I can feel my blood pumping sluggishly,
Steadily, beneath my fragile skin.
I am reminded of my own mortality.
The pulse could cease,
And the universe would not stop its song.
The fish would stay in rhythm and harmony,
And there would still be new life and beauty.

A sobering thought, but freeing as well.

I am not the center, not even close.

I saw a picture of you today
And I thought,
"You are the most beautiful person I've ever SEEN."
It took my breath away.
I love you.
I am in love with you.
When I am in your arms
Nothing else matters.
When I see your face
I melt with joy.
When I think of you
My soul glows with awe.
But darling
I know I am okay, underneath all that desperate love.
I know I am. Somehow.
There's a bit of something there
That never was before,
Something solid.
I am so glad
That sometimes I have a lucid moment
Within the insanity of loving you.
Not-
Never!-
When you are next to me,
For then I can't imagine even breathing without being near you.
But when you are absent,
When you are absent
Sometimes I am not sad
And I'm thankful I've discovered the duality
Of worshiping you
And enjoying my life without you always in it.
And it's not perfect-
I've spent a lifetime fearing this change.
My life has said to me,
"To let go is to forget, and to forget is to lose everything.
To trust is to be unprepared for damage.
To breathe is to allow a weakness you can't afford."
There are many many moments when your silence
Chafes at my wrists like rope,
When I panic, drowning in the loss of you
Even though I know it isn't a permanent one.
But...
There are many moments, also
When I think of you and smile
Even though I know you are not thinking of me
And that
Frankly
Is much more progress than it seems like.
That is more faith and calm than I've ever been able to offer someone
I'd bring down the stars for.
I am working for this.

Greyblue overwhelms my eyes
as fog and cloud covers the sand
Stretching beside me
I step forth, leaving family behind
Lost in wonder.
Salt intoxicates, tempts my nostrils
Enticing my feet forward
The coarse sand grows soft
As it greets the water,
Melting at its touch
- my toes relish the taste-
Natural
Water rushing around me
Below me
Through me
Rising as I willingly sink in
The endless ocean hypnotizing me
Like the sirens it holds, singing to
The voyager within
A voice, now not so sweet
Stern, concerned, worried,
-motherly-
Calling me back, forming
Crossroads to my young mind
Amphibious
A tadpole
Drawn between reality and - safety?
Pulled back
The sand chafes my skin
As I walk back to the world I know so well,
And the future that remains a stranger.

You need to go.
And I don't know how to do it.
I don't want to forget you, to cut you off. I don't want to shatter my love for you.
There has to be another way.
But... you need to go.
I can't keep waking up sore every morning. Raw.
I can't keep talking myself out of tears.
I can't keep wondering why the hell you matter to me, and abusing myself for caring about you.
But I don't know how to do it. It's not in me to extinguish a love.
I have sacrificed every part of myself at least once to avoid it.
It has been the single thing I am unwilling to do.
The one unwavering line in the sand.
And I know where this leads- this trying to erase it.
I know because I've tried,
In pain,
In desperation, to destroy a love before. And I couldn't do it.
I threw more and more at it, unleashed every weapon I had.
And by the end...
I had caught the rest of me in the crossfire, and the only thing that remained untouched was that love.
You need to go.
But that will happen again if I try to uproot you from my soul.
It is a humbling lot. A prideless realization. That I must wait.
That I must serve the part of me that holds me captive, the only part of me I know as indestructible,
The part that reigns because nothing can dethrone it.
I must bow to it, because I like what else I am.
I know that even if I tried with every ounce of courage and hatred I have built up over my years to demolish my love for you, the dust would clear,
And it would be the only thing about me left.
And I don't want it to be.
I don't respect it enough to let it be my defining factor.
And so I sit and stew and wait, for it to loosen its stranglehold, or for you to come back.
It is a prideless thing. And I am a proud person.
And it chafes every single day.
And I swallow it, and go on.

The eventual "later"; come and gone, why haven't I heard back from either one?
I left myself open to keep them safe, to be taken advantage; leaving chafes.
Protecting and returning by their side, thrown, tossed around and asked to abide.
Abused and used to find their happiness, left alone with your thoughts in the darkness.

The magic inside of him is too powerful for her eyes to witness
Naked and innocent as they are.
There's a way his soul grinds and chafes against thoughts as they lay unprepared
That gets tested by question without answers and people without petitions.
There is no one path.
There is a single door locked fourteen times leading to a narrow, dry valley.
Deeper than the sea, lined with dust and maggots
He once crouched hysterically digging and clawing at the earth
In search of a power to great for a single body of flesh to inhabit.
Comfortably.

desperate hands clasping branches
            forcing the limbs to shake
            just as much as hands
                    the of the climber
    leaves and new buds are torn off
                     tears
                    blood
                    sweat
           is smeared on the tree
                                             a rope
is tied around the strongest bough
    the rope is coarse and chafes
                       skin and bark
a dead weight pulls
the branch bends with added weight
the coarse rope holds dead life
the snap is bone and branch
blood and tree sap spills
                   yet only one natural thing lived
                   how does the tree feel about this?

When trying to chew your daily fodder
a mouth sore can be quite a bother.
You must make sure your teeth evade it
Lest you inflame and irritate it.

Often when you try to speak
It chafes against your pointed teeth
And causes such a searing pain
That seems to paralyse the brain.

And brushing your teeth is a dreaded chore;
The bristles could exacerbate the sore.
Unless you want to start and end your day wincing
You'd better stick to plain old rinsing.

You try to laugh at someone's jest
But manage a queasy grin at best.
Your face can handle limited expressions,
Mostly wearing a look of mild oppression.

Now, if you ask me, tea only has leverage
When it's sipped as a piping hot beverage.
Lukewarm, it tastes unappealing
But you can't have hot things when the ulcer is healing.

And what makes me even more miserable
Is that the time the darned thing takes to heal is considerable.
Meanwhile, I will just have to wait
And apply the choline salicylate.

No more than sawdust on the floor,
these songs of praise
this turning lathe
this shaving of humanity.
I wait to see what morning brings and what the new day has to say about these songs we sing.

Praising Kings,
all well enough but there is other stuff to do
important stuff
more than enough to make the praising of a King,seem
something more or nothing less than luxury.

And luxury is in short supply,
The Kings have taken it,
that's why, and we,
the last knockings of a fractured society
still want to sing a song of praise.

In all my days I've never seen a King nor Queen who'd want to be
the last one knocking on the doors of this,
the wooden pegs that nail us shut within the cut off,if for, but of and because humanity has ceased to give a flying fig
it's got to big for its own boots
left behind the roots that gave the feet of man
the hands to change,remodel,mould another master plan
and I am
reaching for the knotted rope to wind around my neck,I hope
you'll sing a ****** song for me
a ballad would be praise indeed for us the ones we find in need
the deed is done
The King is dead
Long live the King echoes round the rope that swings around my swinging head
in the end
because it always was the end that lent me moments to despair of rotating silent,deathly pale and wondering, was this life fair
but here or there or anywhere you care to bring,
you sing
you praise,
ferment your days and build up hope but in effect you are the ones who swing upon the rope that chafes the skin
we never win
we always break down at the altar just before a mass is said
Long live the King who lived so long and now
The King is dead.

Divine for me, if you please, how I have ye, and you do not speak?
Have I crossed a line, that thine correspondence is bleak?
Have you put upon me a girdle, that our interaction be limited to only what you would need from me?

You sit there in your cocoon,
I do not know that you brood,
I imagine you must have some preoccupation that is veiled from me.
Whence come they?
That you would not let me see?
I long for you to become with me
For I sit alone unhinged from thee.

Can we talk, you and I?
Be unleashed, you and I?
Melded, unrestricted you and I?

Open for me, this seclusion chafes.

He who smiles
He who sighs
He who cares
He who dares

He who loves
He always proves
He who helps
He who yelps

He who suffers
He often chafes
He who cries
He who dies

This padded snow is seeping in.
My breath is hard and rash.
This girl has made a fool of me,
the fight was just a flash.
A glint of silver is what I see,
I move on intuition.
Perhaps I can get her to agree,
surrender as admonition.
But incendiary eyes,
are what comprise,
her unmitigated fury.
Her weapon whips,
through air and sky,
personifying her jury.
She missteps, and I imply,
gently, with my compound's eye,
the meaning of my words.

Iron chafes the ground of grass.
Her body shifts with fluent ease.
Reverent speed I can't surpass.
Her saber, bringing death's disease.

But...

She contemplates all that I've said.
My eyes are locked on savory skies.
Life and death are on a thread.
Her maxim's pact she can't defy.

My steadied hand can take the risk,
with no regard for identity,
of moving blades, as I am frisked.
Another piece of my weaponry.
Assassins grace will carry through.
Perhaps to be my remedy.
Her hidden blade makes its debut.
Restoring lost integrity.

Silence permeates rotten skies, as snow flakes hit the earth.
My limbs are feeling ragged, my breathing is overt.
Calamity is added, by the blush she can't desert.

This mask is painted-
Lips and eyes, delicate but fractured
With little breaks and
spidery lines,
Like the fraying of my
dresses.

I can't remember what I
look like, anymore. The
roots showing beneath
this wig or the broken skin beneath this
porcelain

You say it's pretty. Say
I'm beautiful beneath
It's all an artifice,
Lying to save the truth I
cannot unleash

And your skin is
statuesque- perfect, and
your hinges don't creak
like mine,
And I wonder if they've
wired you up,
Finely tuned your
neurons, just like mine
So you can speak and
laugh without a mask
So you can act the part
of "fine"

So well, I find, I've fallen
in love,
Well so what, that
knowledge was just a
matter of finding
The right code to
program into.
A right set of Action and
Response

Can you even live with a
clockwork heart? With
tubes and chemicals as
veins.
Can you cry bitter,
Mercury tears?
Can your electrodes
spark, like mine?

I find this mask is so hard
to remove, and so easy
to wear,
That lately I've worn it to
sleep
I've begun to forget if I've
ever been without it,
before,
But it itches my skin raw,
and it chafes and sweats,
and I cry though
porcelain cannot weep.

“There’s not even room enough to be anywhere
Its not dark yet, but it’s getting there”. – Bob Dylan
.
A pair of die is tossed across a plywood-table.
It’s oak-veneer of creamy grain glisters with light
Which falls crummy, like dandruff from naked bulbs
That are illumined by a hand that screws;
There is no switch.
The flick of that wrist charms those die into snake eyes.
And so, the two-fold trick erupts our opposites on top
Of the laminated universe. The stones have settled.

You can smell the ignited, paper wick
Of a well-packed cigarette
But none of the sweet leaf which follows.
The virtue of our space is that
The substance is snuffed out.

No more panache with death-
Wish; just sadness fumbling with toilet
Paper, because tissues got expensive.
Pretty quick the crown of that nose chafes
Against the single-ply and specks of skin
Suspend themselves in oddly solar
Bathroom light. But the cells reform so quick;
The cartilage is solid like the trunks of effusive,
Sappy trees that create a sympathetic prison.
Soon, apathetic winter comes to ****
The ornaments obscuring
A depthless forest.

So stripped of foliage, an ascetic, wintry oak
Must look inside itself.
The anatomy of tree
As annulated grain,
Is kept concealed; flat circles. marking. years.
It sees Prospero’s Ariel and Carlotta’s Madeleine.
They’re gagged, trapped in the trunk
And point outside the Vertigo of time –
Inside the television – to “total flow” –  
(Where Scottie drools catatonically)
To spotless light, in evergreen rooms
That are built of such better pulp.

..

Conspicuous are characters around here.
It seems that silver dollars stack ten to a word
Of which so many do plague these matted
And miserly phrases.
Intelligent, it isn’t.  Green looks blue;
Intelligence is stupid. It does not sound
Like anything and means much less.
No, they’re hopeful to be musical or
Umbilical; like, connected to the harmonic
Mother who’s just now gestating an utterance
For life or death. Whichever side
Of the soil you prefer.

Most folks used to hedge their bets on both
But eternity is out, the moment is in.
Like Jesus Christ it’s difficult to stay
With the latest
Transcendental style.  
Friction atomizes faith’s tension ‘till
Belief systems are burned out.

The Library of Babel is in flames.
The ash falls and frosts the boughs
Of culture’s mangey oak.

That tree, was just struck by the zeitgeist’s lightning.
And furiously, so furiously our year’s snow is falling,
On all the breathing; all the sleeping,
Whom sawing logs are situated in the worst, possible
S(lumber).
…

I saw dust, and it looked like me.
I am the 3rd Adam.
I am a-bomb.
And I will deliver us.

Sawdust