I am here at the beginning when

the heat melts the palms aloft,

here where the servants badly rend

pizzas ever again, twisting  songs of

all they go to the springs for, always

go the thousandthn time, ever

go for the ghostly thou.


Wile-y, the thou, acting like: I’m awake but

these spice-blown brows know’st knots no sailor never

knew for the new pilgrims roaming, forgetting,

rocking me, oh me, laundering my duds

in a torment of fancy French detergent,

watching history howl with no exit

brains cloven dry the wiles,

or is it simply the pining whiles?


Am I not

the wily sprite born in a pineheart

core of the wood, heartpine,

what you want your cranium made of,

walls and floors scented of a real

thing, where you can step and dance

while ogres for centuries remember that day

on the Campo dei Fiori when

stuck in the corner was Marie

in her cheap gold cartouche measuring

for beetles where toads would question most everything?


Look for a real?

No, hence my brow spiced.

Yes, I was here the whiles it took, here at the get-go.


Tell me how holds now the authoritative commandment pure and amusing?

Who vanishes for perplexity, the great dear afterwards inconceivable?

And where are unbounded powers?

Scattered among all stanzas of knowledge?


No, announce me Buddha wheel, him able to receive doubt,

whose days have abundant light,

whose nights plentiful dark,

who born in the pines on a bed of needles,

longleaf pine, rosiny mildewed rampant with beetles

and toads

and from there I flew

and now here I am

at the beginning again.


Sketchbook drawing by Santos-Dumont, used with permission.


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