Baptista Robed in exuberance; bound to minstrels cellos, The Baptists long bells blare songs Flood ether with euphony, and the orbits facing The earth-gates. From this first heaven, finished in a year, The native white dove descends. Male bird flaps saints wings, unfold feathers Like little clouds in Jordans firmament. Transfigures its origin drowned in River Ramos With incandescent phallus-lights fixed for rebirth. Voice echoes. Transcends immersed body Fastened to a mind that floats on water. Blind to the deep sea where it strays without sight For what water is made of. Thrice, it accepted a way Conducted through munificence into ortho-penitence. Thrice, it shed the shrine it was a chalice-bearer For the gods wine. The filth is received in the depth. The surface sphere exchanges fanfares to start A new beginning. Old things are forever lost in organic journeys. This path repaired holds onto its interregnum; The self in combat with the sun egged on inversions, Until a mother on a course, a crosshatching printed On meaning tends to innocence, placing her five fingers As crosses on what passed as love from womb to child. She flaunts it, bends the universe as roof Over a glasshouse-born. Birth do not come to an end With the midwifes tongue dipped in dulcet laughter. Ask the serpent who abandons its hunk Hung on grass, suspended on hills. Such a peregrination to the limits. For there great palaces to be won, walls to be razed down. Stretched like arms over people and places. Under these Bridges flow monuments, functions, Penalty, boredom, lyrics, bruises, Biafra banquets, And the life of a bandit whose forte is a sickle Propped against the grave, a ranch house open Without doors, close to the accepted way bedecked With windows. From I AM CHRISTOPHER SONG, a chapbook.
Posted on: Thu, 05 Jun 2014 21:32:13 +0000
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