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There are places for chaos on the page, meaningful, apparent confusion —temps en temps on the continent does not mean “time to time” in Kent, or Greenwich. From stone through weeds and parchment, through bad times, words made their way to the printed page. Bibles now not just for those who go to worship by carriage, but for those who pray with bare feet, some washed, some smelling of stables and excrement. I’m not sure the words ocean and sea mean the same to you and me. Ninety-five percent universal confusion, dark matter was born with the legitimacy of an onion, the roar of a lion. I sit in the rumble seat of judgment, I damn myself for entertainment, for wasting time on hopeless entertainment. I am guilty of snarling lines, Gordian knots in my “Shakespeare” fishing reels. I must untangle this because eels have hearts like us. The enemy is symmetry. In the spring of content, I trust glorious chaos. I smell in disorder the outhouse of order. I must have respect for what I kill and eat, Jesus gave them loaves and fishes, not meat. He added, “Waste nothing you eat,” he did not say, “Waste is chaos made by me, or my Father, one person who is three.” Rebecca, at the well, said, “Drink. Water your camels.” I swear, my hands each on a Bible, the only evidence admissible is invisible. At twenty, I was lost in the snow, a sleigh bell. Chaos is not a “sometime thing,” its face and back are turned to and from us, what I cannot see is beautiful, or an isthmus that connects almost nothing to almost nothing — the great unless, either/or. I grab on to metaphor, uncertainty, dark matter, gravity specific. The motto I nail to my door: The Devil generalizes, angels are specific. Chaos makes me merry, string or rose-by-any-other-rose theory, romance of the rose, roses that go with any other flower, from devil’s paintbrush to huckleberry. From fertile Chaos sprang Eros and Night: Chaos danced first with Eros, then jealous Night. Time carries a scythe, women and men sound the hour. I model for myself, I pose in north light. With helpers, his stevedore brothers, Hypnos and Thanatos, Charon still poles his familiar ferry across the Styx to an island where skeletons dance. Einstein said, “I too believe in appearance,” he didn’t think Old One plays dice, takes chances. You bet your bottom dollar the universe rhymes with another universe like verse. Yeats, Herrick, and Herbert would like that. To them, I lift my hat. Delphic chaos is wise, metaphoric thinking multiplies bunches of grapes, by tripod, by butterflies. Chaos is endless longing — God’s pussycat. In Prague, Mozart knew a starling who sang his piano concerto all along, except for one note he always got wrong.

We make our meek adjustments, Contented with such random consolations As the wind deposits In slithered and too ample pockets. For we can still love the world, who find A famished kitten on the step, and know Recesses for it from the fury of the street, Or warm torn elbow coverts. We will sidestep, and to the final smirk Dally the doom of that inevitable thumb That slowly chafes its puckered index toward us, Facing the dull squint with what innocence And what surprise! And yet these fine collapses are not lies More than the pirouettes of any pliant cane; Our obsequies are, in a way, no enterprise. We can evade you, and all else but the heart: What blame to us if the heart live on. The game enforces smirks; but we have seen The moon in lonely alleys make A grail of laughter of an empty ash can, And through all sound of gaiety and quest Have heard a kitten in the wilderness.

For we have thought the longer thoughts And gone the shorter way. And we have danced to devils’ tunes, Shivering home to pray; To serve one master in the night, Another in the day.

And then I began my habit of walking at night to get rid of the strings, witherings. The Lord revealed to me that I am full of birds turned smoke and hook è d strings. I say to the Lord, Lord take a string. I have named it mesas ringed with beeswax wicks, footsteps sowing up my stairs, tambourines in trees. Then a tedious, gruesome miracle unfolds, for the Lord takes the string and what attends it. Walking over a grate there is the sound of the grate. Margarita Mondays mean exactly that. I say, how could I eat? I ate. And how can I sleep? I shake. The Lord says, look at the branches, how they braid over graves. And the Lord says, look at the HandiMart, a bright, ordered box. They have their grief, the people there. Now the tableaus mass color, now the tableaus fall down. I say wet pavement keep on holding me up. Wet pavement hold me up. Now the fetishes crumble, now the meteors cup. The Lord says, I meant of it a blessing. And I say, I made of it a curse. The Lord says, sound of roots, sound of shoots, sound of asphalt, sound of cars. I say, I am walked into deeps. Here are the jewelthreads and throbbings that I need to leave. The Lord says, chomp and be chewed, alleluia. Sever and stitch, alleluia. Exceedingly, the Lord says,bar,barr,barr. I say snowfield? Snowfield? Pi ñ on roasting? Chaparall? The Lord says, is what you want the terrible free? And I say to the Lord, Lord speak. And the Lord says, sound of earth in orbit, its muffled, its four-chambered beat.

(excerpt) Holland, that scarce deserves the name of land, As but th’ off-scouring of the British sand; And so much earth as was contributed By English pilots when they heav’d the lead; Or what by th’ ocean’s slow alluvion fell, Of shipwrack’d cockle and the mussel-shell; This indigested vomit of the sea Fell to the Dutch by just propriety. Glad then, as miners that have found the ore, They with mad labour fish’d the land to shore; And div’d as desperately for each piece Of earth, as if’t had been of ambergris; Collecting anxiously small loads of clay, Less than what building swallows bear away; Or than those pills which sordid beetles roll, Transfusing into them their dunghill soul. How did they rivet, with gigantic piles, Thorough the centre their new-catched miles; And to the stake a struggling country bound, Where barking waves still bait the forced ground; Building their watry Babel far more high To reach the sea, than those to scale the sky. Yet still his claim the injur’d ocean laid, And oft at leap-frog ore their steeples play’d: As if on purpose it on land had come To show them what’s their mare liberum. A daily deluge over them does boil; The earth and water play at level-coil; The fish oft-times the burgher dispossest, And sat not as a meat but as a guest; And oft the Tritons and the sea-nymphs saw Whole sholes of Dutch serv’d up for cabillau; Or as they over the new level rang’d For pickled herring, pickled heeren chang’d. Nature, it seem’d, asham’d of her mistake, Would throw their land away at duck and drake.

Who is the happy Warrior? Who is he That every man in arms should wish to be? —It is the generous Spirit, who, when brought Among the tasks of real life, hath wrought Upon the plan that pleased his boyish thought: Whose high endeavours are an inward light That makes the path before him always bright; Who, with a natural instinct to discern What knowledge can perform, is diligent to learn; Abides by this resolve, and stops not there, But makes his moral being his prime care; Who, doomed to go in company with Pain, And Fear, and Bloodshed, miserable train! Turns his necessity to glorious gain; In face of these doth exercise a power Which is our human nature's highest dower: Controls them and subdues, transmutes, bereaves Of their bad influence, and their good receives: By objects, which might force the soul to abate Her feeling, rendered more compassionate; Is placable—because occasions rise So often that demand such sacrifice; More skilful in self-knowledge, even more pure, As tempted more; more able to endure, As more exposed to suffering and distress; Thence, also, more alive to tenderness. —'Tis he whose law is reason; who depends Upon that law as on the best of friends; Whence, in a state where men are tempted still To evil for a guard against worse ill, And what in quality or act is best Doth seldom on a right foundation rest, He labours good on good to fix, and owes To virtue every triumph that he knows: —Who, if he rise to station of command, Rises by open means; and there will stand On honourable terms, or else retire, And in himself possess his own desire; Who comprehends his trust, and to the same Keeps faithful with a singleness of aim; And therefore does not stoop, nor lie in wait For wealth, or honours, or for worldly state; Whom they must follow; on whose head must fall, Like showers of manna, if they come at all: Whose powers shed round him in the common strife, Or mild concerns of ordinary life, A constant influence, a peculiar grace; But who, if he be called upon to face Some awful moment to which Heaven has joined Great issues, good or bad for human kind, Is happy as a Lover; and attired With sudden brightness, like a Man inspired; And, through the heat of conflict, keeps the law In calmness made, and sees what he foresaw; Or if an unexpected call succeed, Come when it will, is equal to the need: —He who, though thus endued as with a sense And faculty for storm and turbulence, Is yet a Soul whose master-bias leans To homefelt pleasures and to gentle scenes; Sweet images! which, wheresoe'er he be, Are at his heart; and such fidelity It is his darling passion to approve; More brave for this, that he hath much to love:— 'Tis, finally, the Man, who, lifted high, Conspicuous object in a Nation's eye, Or left unthought-of in obscurity,— Who, with a toward or untoward lot, Prosperous or adverse, to his wish or not— Plays, in the many games of life, that one Where what he most doth value must be won: Whom neither shape or danger can dismay, Nor thought of tender happiness betray; Who, not content that former worth stand fast, Looks forward, persevering to the last, From well to better, daily self-surpast: Who, whether praise of him must walk the earth For ever, and to noble deeds give birth, Or he must fall, to sleep without his fame, And leave a dead unprofitable name— Finds comfort in himself and in his cause; And, while the mortal mist is gathering, draws His breath in confidence of Heaven's applause: This is the happy Warrior; this is he That every man in arms should wish to be.

Say what you like about Charaxos, that’s a fellow with a fat-bellied ship always in some port or other. What does Zeus care, or the rest of his gang? Now you’d like me on my knees, crying out to Hera, “Blah, blah, blah, bring him home safe and free of warts,” or blubbering, “Wah, wah, wah, thank you, thank you, for curing my liver condition.” Good grief, gods do what they like. They call down hurricanes with a whisper or send off a tsunami the way you would a love letter. If they have a whim, they make some henchmen fix it up, like those idiots in the Iliad. A puff of smoke, a little fog, away goes the hero, it’s happily ever after. As for Larichos, that lay-a-bed lives for the pillow. If for once he’d get off his ass, he might make something of himself. Then from that reeking sewer of my life I might haul up a bucket of spring water. Translated from the Greek

I Half a league, half a league, Half a league onward, All in the valley of Death Rode the six hundred. “Forward, the Light Brigade! Charge for the guns!” he said. Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred. II “Forward, the Light Brigade!” Was there a man dismayed? Not though the soldier knew Someone had blundered. Theirs not to make reply, Theirs not to reason why, Theirs but to do and die. Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred. III Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon in front of them Volleyed and thundered; Stormed at with shot and shell, Boldly they rode and well, Into the jaws of Death, Into the mouth of hell Rode the six hundred. IV Flashed all their sabres bare, Flashed as they turned in air Sabring the gunners there, Charging an army, while All the world wondered. Plunged in the battery-smoke Right through the line they broke; Cossack and Russian Reeled from the sabre stroke Shattered and sundered. Then they rode back, but not Not the six hundred. V Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon behind them Volleyed and thundered; Stormed at with shot and shell, While horse and hero fell. They that had fought so well Came through the jaws of Death, Back from the mouth of hell, All that was left of them, Left of six hundred. VI When can their glory fade? O the wild charge they made! All the world wondered. Honour the charge they made! Honour the Light Brigade, Noble six hundred!

The nicest child I ever knew Was Charles Augustus Fortescue. He never lost his cap, or tore His stockings or his pinafore: In eating Bread he made no Crumbs, He was extremely fond of sums, To which, however, he preferred The Parsing of a Latin Word— He sought, when it was within his power, For information twice an hour, And as for finding Mutton-Fat Unappatising, far from that! He often, at his Father’s Board, Would beg them, of his own accord, To give him, if they did not mind, The Greasiest Morsels they could find— His Later Years did not belie The Promise of his Infancy. In Public Life he always tried To take a judgement Broad and Wide; In Private, none was more than he Renowned for quiet courtesy. He rose at once in his Career, And long before his Fortieth Year Had wedded Fifi, Only Child Of Bunyan, First Lord Aberfylde. He thus became immensely Rich, And built the Splendid Mansion which Is called The Cedars, Muswell Hill, Where he resides in affluence still, To show what everybody might Become by SIMPLY DOING RIGHT.

Let’s get this straight: Charles Graner is not America. America would never hold a knife to his wife’s throat, then say when she woke that he was considering killing her. And America’s wife in turn would never call her husband “my own Hannibal Lecter.” Am I right, or what? Charles Graner may be Hannibal Lecter, but he is not America. America is not that kind of husband. Nor would America email his adolescent children photos of himself torturing naked Iraqi prisoners and say “look what Daddy gets to do!” Am I right? America is not that kind of father. America would never torture naked Iraqi prisoners. Let’s be absolutely clear about all of this. And America’s ex-lover and co-defendant would never whisper to the sketch artist at America’s trial: “You forgot the horns.” Charles Graner may or may not have horns, but America is horn-free. America does not torture prisoners. America may render them, fully clothed, to Egypt or Syria, for further interrogation, or to men like Charles Graner, but America is not, ipso facto, Egypt or Syria, and Charles Graner is not now nor has he ever been America. And don’t talk to me about Guantanamo. Please! Let’s get this straight. You and I know who America is. We know what America does and doesn’t do, because we (not Charles Graner!) are America. Am I right? Is this all clear? Tell me—am I right, or what?