SALI'S ARK
For Marcella Sali Grace
By K. Curtis Lyle
**
1. THE GIRL WHO OPENS DOORS
I didn’t know her
But I met the spirit of that girl
In her father’s voice
And I recognized her immediately
"Love brings the kind of magic that talent can only dream of" - Nguyen Khai
"It takes a lot of energy to re-invent the world on a daily basis" - Diane Di Prima
"For the true artist, the desire for intensity is stronger than the will for self-preservation" - Rudiger Safranski, NIETZSCHE, A Philosophical Biography
I walk through a door
And then another door
And then another
Through one door there is good food
Through another there is drink, long and full,
And finally the metal hinge of a third door
Sings to me, calls,
And I proceed to the living room
There are patterns of doors laughing, opening and closing,
Multi-colored, multi-layered,
Brown-bronze wood doors hugging beveled glass
Hiding-holding the myth called music, tightly,
Inside petrochemical plastic doors, preserving song-life
That really just wants to open the door, live strong,
And move on
I didn’t know her
But I heard the spirit of that girl
In her father’s voice
And I recognized her immediately
I didn’t know her
But I know warm fresh bread when I taste it
I know the roundness and depth of wine
When it tip-toes or thunders across my palette
I know what I like
I didn’t know her
But I felt the spirit of that girl
In her father’s voice
And I liked her immediately
There was a picture on the wall
That became a door
When her father spoke
When he intoned Sali
That girl came out
Fleet of foot and swift of temper
In a high dance step
And the laws of terror and wonder
The agreements of person and will
Of animal, vegetable and mineral
Lay down at her feet
And listened
Her father was talking to me
But his voice kept saying
Over and over and over again
"Sali, there’s no one in life quite like you"
I didn’t know her
But, fourteen days after she stumbled violently
Through the damp night crime door
Into the reed clay pool of eternity
I dream-wed her in Arab dress and hoop earrings
She had long black temple curls
In classic flame and rhyme
She spoke in the dual languages of God, poetry and time
This is what she said to me:
"With a crescent wrench,
I open a rusted red dumpster door
And turn it into a quick meal of love and ferocity.
Inside that same box of becoming and abandonment
I see a greased and stained brown paper bag
Inside the bag there is a plate with three parts
Holding sloth, con games and misogyny
I jump out of the dumpster, leaving the door open,
Locate a green counter where trades are made
And exchange the bag of sloth, con games and misogyny
For the photostream of parenthood, teaching and sex
Sex becomes mystery, teaching becomes openness,
Parenthood becomes creation
I crown myself again and again and roar, because
I know that at the end of my tongue
There is always the mission of opening doors
I love opening doors
The doors of freight trains become
Womb doors, the doors of rickety country buses
Become heart doors; the flat, wide thump of working feet
Pound the ground and open the doors of perception
So that I might bear witness
To this beautiful being
I love opening doors
And I open them all;
Dream doors, rock doors, bird doors, root doors,
The old school doors of the delta
The warp, the woof, the moisture of perception
I keep the doors open as if they were
My own breath
If a smoking stack signals that freight is on the way
Then this open door surely means
Here is sanctuary
I open the doors of power
That flow from life to life
Like spiritual insurance
I open the self-containing, self-sustaining doors
From behind which my own hermitage anoints her self
By following my seed back to its source
I love doors!
"Don’t be afraid, the clown’s afraid, too" - Charles Mingus
But, I am a soul
Locked-up inside a body
A sailing impoverished circus, Jah clown,
Blood drummer of flared sticks against caribou breasts
I am against submission and the confusion of submission
And the weakness and stupidity of those who agree to submit
The purified water of a clean well
I am somewhere that no one can drink from me
And to know this thing
Is a terrible hurt put on my heart
For you I have opened the door to myself
The clear deep well of my being
From which no one will draw
And to know this thing
Is a terrible hurt put on my heart
There is no honor here where I am, no soul
Nothing authentic or certain; no undeniable faith;
No surety; no crosschecking uncensored system
That guarantees continuity or salvation or flow
No Krishna, no Buddha, no Judah, no sweet Jesus,
No paradise of lost and found Islam
Riding the blow holes of clairvoyant dolphins
The signposts change instantly
One reads, "God made love to a blue duck in this doorway"
Another answers graphically, "Who the fuck cares?"
There is coolness here; a shadow,
That mimics real darkness
It tells me to cherish my losses
And that defeat is sweeter than victory
It tells me that in order to open the door to love
I have to bend my knee and submit to the other love,
The degradation of love; then consistently practice the ritual
Of negative courage; but,
I have already stated that I am against submission
And the weakness and stupidity of those who agree
To submit to anything; but, I am confused
In my heart, which is my soul locked-up inside my body
There is no question here
That can be answered by simply
Paying attention
Everything changes
A golden light becomes a guitar
"I don’t want to be God, but I can’t stand being human"
Everything changes
"I am ancient, but I am not old"
Here, where I am, there is odor, taste, sight, feeling, sound,
Acute awareness
And the six additional perfected senses
Proximity, delicacy, coordination, no pity, consecration
Consummation
That make-up the songs of the chief speakers
Of the refuge of the open door
I am one with them
I sit in an ark of song, a kind of mystic chorale,
Forever in a chariot of butterflies without fingerprints
Praising and thanking caterpillar you
Whose mind first made
Me
By chanting the overwhelming mantra of silk
I now eat submission;
Weakness and stupidity
Have become the found meal of my life
I have given All there is to give"
**
2. STEALING THE BABY’S MILK
“Beyond the reach of scorn,
Lust is freed of its vulgar face”
- Bob Kaufman, Poet
I was blinded and marvelous
I practiced scorn and preached lust
I was the sinner, who saddled up the old gray mare
Then had a full grown Celtic rune for lunch
Whenever I lost my footing
I passed myself off as chocolate pudding
They didn’t know the difference
Between a mastectomy and masturbation
Between the pursuit of happiness and dead meat
Traveling to market in refrigerated cars
Between freedom and the fenced-in pasture
A few feet away
Between an American endgame
And the cold blooded aftermath of victory
Between the stumbling campaign trail of speech
As justice and humiliation
And the perfect pitch of music as the science of combination
They had never walked to the other side of the tracks
Or ambled off into a mist
They were professionals who didn’t know how
To communicate deep needs
They had given up crack for cocaine
And returned to California
Their demented toddlers were penciled into M.I.T. at birth
And wore personalized monogrammed bib and overalls
For them a breast was a permafrost Blackberry
Poised to become an immovable titty-to-a-star
For them glass was real
Pasteurized glistening relief was real
The calibrated-strawberry-double-mocha-café-latte
Morning- rich-bitch- stroll was real
For me sheep fondling the nipples of gazelles was real
Billy goats suckling lions and buzzards
Circling the submerged teats of whales was real
I feared extinction, but could live forever
They had no fear and were nearly finished
They were a loud crowd of human beings
Who had never learned to cherish seeing in silence
I was a thief who crept onto the back porch
At dawn and stole the baby’s milk
I didn’t know her
But I met the spirit of that girl
In her father’s voice
And I recognized her immediately
"Love brings the kind of magic that talent can only dream of" - Nguyen Khai
"It takes a lot of energy to re-invent the world on a daily basis" - Diane Di Prima
"For the true artist, the desire for intensity is stronger than the will for self-preservation" - Rudiger Safranski, NIETZSCHE, A Philosophical Biography
I walk through a door
And then another door
And then another
Through one door there is good food
Through another there is drink, long and full,
And finally the metal hinge of a third door
Sings to me, calls,
And I proceed to the living room
There are patterns of doors laughing, opening and closing,
Multi-colored, multi-layered,
Brown-bronze wood doors hugging beveled glass
Hiding-holding the myth called music, tightly,
Inside petrochemical plastic doors, preserving song-life
That really just wants to open the door, live strong,
And move on
I didn’t know her
But I heard the spirit of that girl
In her father’s voice
And I recognized her immediately
I didn’t know her
But I know warm fresh bread when I taste it
I know the roundness and depth of wine
When it tip-toes or thunders across my palette
I know what I like
I didn’t know her
But I felt the spirit of that girl
In her father’s voice
And I liked her immediately
There was a picture on the wall
That became a door
When her father spoke
When he intoned Sali
That girl came out
Fleet of foot and swift of temper
In a high dance step
And the laws of terror and wonder
The agreements of person and will
Of animal, vegetable and mineral
Lay down at her feet
And listened
Her father was talking to me
But his voice kept saying
Over and over and over again
"Sali, there’s no one in life quite like you"
I didn’t know her
But, fourteen days after she stumbled violently
Through the damp night crime door
Into the reed clay pool of eternity
I dream-wed her in Arab dress and hoop earrings
She had long black temple curls
In classic flame and rhyme
She spoke in the dual languages of God, poetry and time
This is what she said to me:
"With a crescent wrench,
I open a rusted red dumpster door
And turn it into a quick meal of love and ferocity.
Inside that same box of becoming and abandonment
I see a greased and stained brown paper bag
Inside the bag there is a plate with three parts
Holding sloth, con games and misogyny
I jump out of the dumpster, leaving the door open,
Locate a green counter where trades are made
And exchange the bag of sloth, con games and misogyny
For the photostream of parenthood, teaching and sex
Sex becomes mystery, teaching becomes openness,
Parenthood becomes creation
I crown myself again and again and roar, because
I know that at the end of my tongue
There is always the mission of opening doors
I love opening doors
The doors of freight trains become
Womb doors, the doors of rickety country buses
Become heart doors; the flat, wide thump of working feet
Pound the ground and open the doors of perception
So that I might bear witness
To this beautiful being
I love opening doors
And I open them all;
Dream doors, rock doors, bird doors, root doors,
The old school doors of the delta
The warp, the woof, the moisture of perception
I keep the doors open as if they were
My own breath
If a smoking stack signals that freight is on the way
Then this open door surely means
Here is sanctuary
I open the doors of power
That flow from life to life
Like spiritual insurance
I open the self-containing, self-sustaining doors
From behind which my own hermitage anoints her self
By following my seed back to its source
I love doors!
"Don’t be afraid, the clown’s afraid, too" - Charles Mingus
But, I am a soul
Locked-up inside a body
A sailing impoverished circus, Jah clown,
Blood drummer of flared sticks against caribou breasts
I am against submission and the confusion of submission
And the weakness and stupidity of those who agree to submit
The purified water of a clean well
I am somewhere that no one can drink from me
And to know this thing
Is a terrible hurt put on my heart
For you I have opened the door to myself
The clear deep well of my being
From which no one will draw
And to know this thing
Is a terrible hurt put on my heart
There is no honor here where I am, no soul
Nothing authentic or certain; no undeniable faith;
No surety; no crosschecking uncensored system
That guarantees continuity or salvation or flow
No Krishna, no Buddha, no Judah, no sweet Jesus,
No paradise of lost and found Islam
Riding the blow holes of clairvoyant dolphins
The signposts change instantly
One reads, "God made love to a blue duck in this doorway"
Another answers graphically, "Who the fuck cares?"
There is coolness here; a shadow,
That mimics real darkness
It tells me to cherish my losses
And that defeat is sweeter than victory
It tells me that in order to open the door to love
I have to bend my knee and submit to the other love,
The degradation of love; then consistently practice the ritual
Of negative courage; but,
I have already stated that I am against submission
And the weakness and stupidity of those who agree
To submit to anything; but, I am confused
In my heart, which is my soul locked-up inside my body
There is no question here
That can be answered by simply
Paying attention
Everything changes
A golden light becomes a guitar
"I don’t want to be God, but I can’t stand being human"
Everything changes
"I am ancient, but I am not old"
Here, where I am, there is odor, taste, sight, feeling, sound,
Acute awareness
And the six additional perfected senses
Proximity, delicacy, coordination, no pity, consecration
Consummation
That make-up the songs of the chief speakers
Of the refuge of the open door
I am one with them
I sit in an ark of song, a kind of mystic chorale,
Forever in a chariot of butterflies without fingerprints
Praising and thanking caterpillar you
Whose mind first made
Me
By chanting the overwhelming mantra of silk
I now eat submission;
Weakness and stupidity
Have become the found meal of my life
I have given All there is to give"
**
2. STEALING THE BABY’S MILK
“Beyond the reach of scorn,
Lust is freed of its vulgar face”
- Bob Kaufman, Poet
I was blinded and marvelous
I practiced scorn and preached lust
I was the sinner, who saddled up the old gray mare
Then had a full grown Celtic rune for lunch
Whenever I lost my footing
I passed myself off as chocolate pudding
They didn’t know the difference
Between a mastectomy and masturbation
Between the pursuit of happiness and dead meat
Traveling to market in refrigerated cars
Between freedom and the fenced-in pasture
A few feet away
Between an American endgame
And the cold blooded aftermath of victory
Between the stumbling campaign trail of speech
As justice and humiliation
And the perfect pitch of music as the science of combination
They had never walked to the other side of the tracks
Or ambled off into a mist
They were professionals who didn’t know how
To communicate deep needs
They had given up crack for cocaine
And returned to California
Their demented toddlers were penciled into M.I.T. at birth
And wore personalized monogrammed bib and overalls
For them a breast was a permafrost Blackberry
Poised to become an immovable titty-to-a-star
For them glass was real
Pasteurized glistening relief was real
The calibrated-strawberry-double-mocha-café-latte
Morning- rich-bitch- stroll was real
For me sheep fondling the nipples of gazelles was real
Billy goats suckling lions and buzzards
Circling the submerged teats of whales was real
I feared extinction, but could live forever
They had no fear and were nearly finished
They were a loud crowd of human beings
Who had never learned to cherish seeing in silence
I was a thief who crept onto the back porch
At dawn and stole the baby’s milk
**
3. SHERIF* OF LOVE
“Without tinges of Spanish in the music, one will never achieve the right seasoning”
- Jelly Roll Morton
She was dark as the song of the border
She was cut from the mold of the night
But the day was her home, she was a Spanish girl
The pain that she carried inside her
Was a message the old woman had buried
She was alone with the mark of love
She came into town unescorted
She was looking for him unadorned
He was the Sherif of Love
Their eyes were sunlight and moonlight
Needing to meet at a corner of town
Set aside, for the dance of love
When one thing leads to another
Desire becomes love and love turns the flesh
Of a girl, into a woman’s love
When one thing leads to another
Desire becomes love and love turns the flesh
Of a boy, into a man’s love
So they rode out of town together
Rode back to the mold of the night
And their eyes never came back to the border town
The young Sherif and his lady
Came down from the mountains of light
To plant a child deep in a river bed
In a stream that ran wet against water
They threw down their net and pulled up a spoonful
Of love, it was a baby girl
She had one tight dark curl on her forehead
Earlobes that shimmered like gold
White satin fingers and toes
Young men tore open their collars
Ripped off their shirts and offered their hearts
As food for the baby girl
Young women ran out from their houses
And started to bloom in the cracks of the street
At the sound of the baby girl
The young Sherif and his lady
Rode back to the mountains of light
With the baby girl, wrapped in a river bed
The desert had lifted her head up and sifted her tears
Away from the dark lines of light
Set her free in the deepest night
She remembered the song of her mother
That was dark and attached to the mold of the night
Leading her heart back, to the border town
The doves made their nests in her shoulders
The rocks spoke to her of her mother’s first love
As she rode alone toward the border town
She was coming back into the circle, unbroken
And carrying love, just like her mother had come
To find the Sherif of Love
As she entered the border town unescorted
She saw the sun lying down in the plaza of life
Unadorned, he was the Sherif of Love
The banks of their love held a river
A torrent of song was unleashed
They rode the raft of love
“Without tinges of Spanish in the music, one will never achieve the right seasoning”
- Jelly Roll Morton
She was dark as the song of the border
She was cut from the mold of the night
But the day was her home, she was a Spanish girl
The pain that she carried inside her
Was a message the old woman had buried
She was alone with the mark of love
She came into town unescorted
She was looking for him unadorned
He was the Sherif of Love
Their eyes were sunlight and moonlight
Needing to meet at a corner of town
Set aside, for the dance of love
When one thing leads to another
Desire becomes love and love turns the flesh
Of a girl, into a woman’s love
When one thing leads to another
Desire becomes love and love turns the flesh
Of a boy, into a man’s love
So they rode out of town together
Rode back to the mold of the night
And their eyes never came back to the border town
The young Sherif and his lady
Came down from the mountains of light
To plant a child deep in a river bed
In a stream that ran wet against water
They threw down their net and pulled up a spoonful
Of love, it was a baby girl
She had one tight dark curl on her forehead
Earlobes that shimmered like gold
White satin fingers and toes
Young men tore open their collars
Ripped off their shirts and offered their hearts
As food for the baby girl
Young women ran out from their houses
And started to bloom in the cracks of the street
At the sound of the baby girl
The young Sherif and his lady
Rode back to the mountains of light
With the baby girl, wrapped in a river bed
The desert had lifted her head up and sifted her tears
Away from the dark lines of light
Set her free in the deepest night
She remembered the song of her mother
That was dark and attached to the mold of the night
Leading her heart back, to the border town
The doves made their nests in her shoulders
The rocks spoke to her of her mother’s first love
As she rode alone toward the border town
She was coming back into the circle, unbroken
And carrying love, just like her mother had come
To find the Sherif of Love
As she entered the border town unescorted
She saw the sun lying down in the plaza of life
Unadorned, he was the Sherif of Love
The banks of their love held a river
A torrent of song was unleashed
They rode the raft of love
* Sherif – a descendant of Mohammed through his daughter Fatima
**
4. A RIVER
“Ride the Moon, Hide the Sun, Watch the Grass Grow,
Black Adobe Eagle”
Sali was a river
Wet for everyone
A prophet with singer’s eyes
A poet in disguise
Emptied her heart
She bred bone and beauty to her beast
Flew with patience to the desert
Tied her home to the stillness of the sea
Emptied her heart
She mastered will and love
She mastered what a man or woman
Should be
Emptied her heart
Refused to be washed
In the same simple blood
Of the angry lamb
She said, “Be adored by your children. Be devoted to your friends.
Pay homage to teachers. Venerate the ones who lived before.
Hosanna your daddy. Hallelujah your mama. Hymn your brother
and sister. Sacrifice little things. Full court press your self
to joy. Pin your self to pain like a latchkey kid. Calm disease.
Serve and thank and breathe.
Carry a horn full of good food in a weather beaten basket. String it down from your collarbone to the sealed crease of your left thigh.
Instead of the absence of the why, choose the presence of the why not.”
Sali was a river
Wet for everyone
Black Adobe Eagle”
Sali was a river
Wet for everyone
A prophet with singer’s eyes
A poet in disguise
Emptied her heart
She bred bone and beauty to her beast
Flew with patience to the desert
Tied her home to the stillness of the sea
Emptied her heart
She mastered will and love
She mastered what a man or woman
Should be
Emptied her heart
Refused to be washed
In the same simple blood
Of the angry lamb
She said, “Be adored by your children. Be devoted to your friends.
Pay homage to teachers. Venerate the ones who lived before.
Hosanna your daddy. Hallelujah your mama. Hymn your brother
and sister. Sacrifice little things. Full court press your self
to joy. Pin your self to pain like a latchkey kid. Calm disease.
Serve and thank and breathe.
Carry a horn full of good food in a weather beaten basket. String it down from your collarbone to the sealed crease of your left thigh.
Instead of the absence of the why, choose the presence of the why not.”
Sali was a river
Wet for everyone
**
5. MARCELLA GRACE, SHE CAUGHT ON FIRE
For John, Catherine and Claire Eiler
“A black Flamenco tear consumes the night.
You are now free, Sali.”
Marcella Grace she caught on fire
Went downtown to a funeral pyre
Came home in pieces on her shield
How can you feel just what I feel?
Marcella Grace she went downtown
Thought she’d change the asbestos clown
Came home in embers on her shield
How can you feel just what I feel?
Marcella Grace she caught on fire
Burned-up in her own desire
Came home a cinder on her shield
How can you feel just what I feel?
Marcella Grace she went downtown
Washed their feet and kissed the ground
Came home in ashes on her shield
How can you feel just what I feel?
Marcella Grace she caught on fire
I pile her memory stone up high
Came home dust her spirit sealed
How can you feel just what I feel?
Marcella Grace she went downtown
Communed with Love and Death and found
That what is live is always real
How can you feel just what I feel?
For John, Catherine and Claire Eiler
“A black Flamenco tear consumes the night.
You are now free, Sali.”
Marcella Grace she caught on fire
Went downtown to a funeral pyre
Came home in pieces on her shield
How can you feel just what I feel?
Marcella Grace she went downtown
Thought she’d change the asbestos clown
Came home in embers on her shield
How can you feel just what I feel?
Marcella Grace she caught on fire
Burned-up in her own desire
Came home a cinder on her shield
How can you feel just what I feel?
Marcella Grace she went downtown
Washed their feet and kissed the ground
Came home in ashes on her shield
How can you feel just what I feel?
Marcella Grace she caught on fire
I pile her memory stone up high
Came home dust her spirit sealed
How can you feel just what I feel?
Marcella Grace she went downtown
Communed with Love and Death and found
That what is live is always real
How can you feel just what I feel?
**
6. BLACK PERSIMMON
Cleaning her grave at sunrise
Sweeping the dust off of the stone
Cleaning her grave at sunrise
Sweeping the dust off of the stone
Where she fell down
Where she fell down
All her love went wrong
All her love went wrong
Door had opened up at midnight
Before I had a chance to look and see
Door had opened up at midnight
Before I had a chance to look and see
She was standing in high water
She was standing in high water
Couldn’t reach her hand to me
Couldn’t reach her hand to me
Between us there was something waiting
It was black and sweet and old
Between us there was something waiting
It was black and sweet and old
I was trying to close the distance
I was trying to close the distance
She was trying to beat the cold
She was trying to beat the cold
Time makes love go blind
Cannot find the way back home
Time makes love go blind
Cannot find the way back home
How bad you want your baby
How bad you want your baby
How can you be alone?
How can you be alone?
Cleaning her grave at sunrise
Sweeping the dust off of the stone
Cleaning her grave at sunrise
Sweeping the dust off of the stone
Where she fell down
Where she fell down
All her love went wrong
All her love went wrong
Door had opened up at midnight
Before I had a chance to look and see
Door had opened up at midnight
Before I had a chance to look and see
She was standing in high water
She was standing in high water
Couldn’t reach her hand to me
Couldn’t reach her hand to me
Between us there was something waiting
It was black and sweet and old
Between us there was something waiting
It was black and sweet and old
I was trying to close the distance
I was trying to close the distance
She was trying to beat the cold
She was trying to beat the cold
Time makes love go blind
Cannot find the way back home
Time makes love go blind
Cannot find the way back home
How bad you want your baby
How bad you want your baby
How can you be alone?
How can you be alone?
**
7. POET EMAILS KILLER:
I AM GREATER THAN YOU
I AM GREATER THAN YOU
“O Death, where is thy sting;
O Grave, where is thy victory”
1 Corinthians 15:55
Plato banned me from his Republic
Because he thought my song too bold
A Mongol unsouled me in a stream near Nishapur
King Henry cut me down while I was kneeling on the floor
In Canterbury Cathedral
When I was Olaf
A ‘good ol’ bird Colonel tried to downpress my blonde word
Into a toilet bowl
I served as keeper of the dream
Until 659 rays cut me down
Like a rabid dog of love
At Sweet Lorraine in Memphis
I am Sali from Oaxaca when a cannibal
Grinds me up like junk food
For poison mills
But I’m still Sali, I’m still here
Chanting and holding my breath
Til I bring down the walls of your Republic
Retooling and resouling
Til the stream becomes a river of tender wool and dew
Pierced and bright
Standing, now, in the center of the Cathedral
Laughing at the sight of lions
Playing basketball with lambs
I can’t explain: but, I’m still here
Making a honeycomb from scorpion stew
POET EMAILS KILLER
I AM GREATER THAN YOU!
Sitting cross-legged in a corral
At a military funeral
I am christened by a seer
I become, I beget, serve,
Give the gift of rumbling torrential light
Rise at dawn and lay down
In motionless debt:
One part balance, one part union, one part arrow
Without weight, one part mended morning
All consumed in a fierce living chamber
Of Dizzy Gillespie upward bent horns
Racing turned illuminated roads
Head-pieced together by ecstatic stockcars
Agitated scents rising and falling
Like the hydraulic aroma of demonic big bands
Hyper-riffing on phoenix-pyres
Binding the spare rib cages of un-muffled saints
Be wood and water, too
Email to all killers
I AM GREATER THAN YOU!
Tried to make me bow down
You failed miserably
Tried to break my spirit
Now all you can see is Me
From the deep world of the mothers
My voice comes crashing through
I send out this email to all killers
I AM GREATER THAN YOU!
Sew nylon sutures into all my eyelids
Put your thumbs up into all my nostrils
Superglue all my lips into brain dead silence
You tried to take my hands and break them
With the barcode you call violence
But I’m still here, still Me
Human and willful and heroic, too
Fighting and writing and making
Feats of magick, skill, bravery and daring do
Email to all killers
I AM GREATER THAN YOU!
Email to all killers
I AM GREATER THAN YOU!
I AM GREATER THAN YOU!
O Grave, where is thy victory”
1 Corinthians 15:55
Plato banned me from his Republic
Because he thought my song too bold
A Mongol unsouled me in a stream near Nishapur
King Henry cut me down while I was kneeling on the floor
In Canterbury Cathedral
When I was Olaf
A ‘good ol’ bird Colonel tried to downpress my blonde word
Into a toilet bowl
I served as keeper of the dream
Until 659 rays cut me down
Like a rabid dog of love
At Sweet Lorraine in Memphis
I am Sali from Oaxaca when a cannibal
Grinds me up like junk food
For poison mills
But I’m still Sali, I’m still here
Chanting and holding my breath
Til I bring down the walls of your Republic
Retooling and resouling
Til the stream becomes a river of tender wool and dew
Pierced and bright
Standing, now, in the center of the Cathedral
Laughing at the sight of lions
Playing basketball with lambs
I can’t explain: but, I’m still here
Making a honeycomb from scorpion stew
POET EMAILS KILLER
I AM GREATER THAN YOU!
Sitting cross-legged in a corral
At a military funeral
I am christened by a seer
I become, I beget, serve,
Give the gift of rumbling torrential light
Rise at dawn and lay down
In motionless debt:
One part balance, one part union, one part arrow
Without weight, one part mended morning
All consumed in a fierce living chamber
Of Dizzy Gillespie upward bent horns
Racing turned illuminated roads
Head-pieced together by ecstatic stockcars
Agitated scents rising and falling
Like the hydraulic aroma of demonic big bands
Hyper-riffing on phoenix-pyres
Binding the spare rib cages of un-muffled saints
Be wood and water, too
Email to all killers
I AM GREATER THAN YOU!
Tried to make me bow down
You failed miserably
Tried to break my spirit
Now all you can see is Me
From the deep world of the mothers
My voice comes crashing through
I send out this email to all killers
I AM GREATER THAN YOU!
Sew nylon sutures into all my eyelids
Put your thumbs up into all my nostrils
Superglue all my lips into brain dead silence
You tried to take my hands and break them
With the barcode you call violence
But I’m still here, still Me
Human and willful and heroic, too
Fighting and writing and making
Feats of magick, skill, bravery and daring do
Email to all killers
I AM GREATER THAN YOU!
Email to all killers
I AM GREATER THAN YOU!
I AM GREATER THAN YOU!
**
Photo by Thom Fletcher from his Flickr site.
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