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1 An Ireland, as of chalk, the sky standing in for the sea, the beach a reach of blue, the vineyards’ green scooped out in cirque, in cove, a subtlety of air laps the eyes, abob like barques come from afar, and the viator standing there, poised to dis- embark, the undercurrent of air escaping him, tossed to & fro, gaze wrenched from its angle of purchase upon the world, capsized, head now careened against the suddenness of rock, eyes whiplashed into new prospects, he drowns in fire, enflamed, fine silk aquiver at the singe of brazier, he burns: would Hell be as blue, or the sun the obverse of God? 2 Now at Laon, the Lugdunum of the North, deposited on this citadel of chalk, white arx, former temple of Lug, the light- god of the Gauls, & he, this Celt from Hibernia, setting foot on this podium, this puy, this platform afloat at cloud & wind height, blown in from the septentrion, breathes in the quintessence of rains, alevel the briar’s pinks, zone where water, at first cold snap, turns to snow. Fallen from fire. Autumn’s pure light whitens the mount, the tufa reverberating the radiance of a Cyclades isle, here mis- placed, high above these plains, by some error in translation. 3 At Lindisfarne, let us suppose — even if Alcuin’s letters to the island’s monks exhorting them to combat the Viking may be evidence to the contrary — that he studied Greek, that Charles the Bald, offshoot of the Pippinids, summoned him here to Laon to translate Dionysus. Between the king’s vineyards & the blue sky, a whisper of the North Sea in the channel of Île Sainte when the seals bark at ebb tide, Johannes the Hibernian cocks an ear despite finding his coracle of Latin too frail a craft to explore the peninsulas of Greek, & carries with him the long-lapping waves of Scotland & seaweed’s tang where kingfisher nests beside nugget of amber. 4 That which lies out of reach taking the shape of this white & shadowy rock on which he is now beached & whose slope he now climbs, blind beneath the sun, fallen from the same height he ascends, would Satan be extending him his welcome with the same dark radiance of stone between his eyes & the same fine peppering of pinks that spice his senses on either side of the stairs, against this, what whiteness, what candor? The sky’s rarified air, there to calculate the distances between the things he climbs or descends, the divisions of the world now extended, now illuminated between the lines, the borders of the intangible now flaring up with darkness, the granular opacities now brightening, the sun biting into the margins of the real, the image dying. 5 Denys, foundation of all cathedrals to come, mentor of naves, stained glass rosettes, of all the gossamer shadow spiderwebbing the light from the East as it rises, Lord of Ionia, oriental Ionas, Denys, Dionysos, your Greek sailing the great hill of Lugdunum, your darkness raining down its alphas, its Alphei, the dawn uncorking the fizz of its dations. John Scotus comments, his violet ink relighting, igniting the world according to Plato, filtering the grit of the flower through the sieve of the eye, the bran, the curds of light, sifting out the clots of theology, in this shadowy cave, the locals burning every log in sight,hoc lignum, a bonfire of stones held in common,lapis iste. 6 And if some hick might ask Quomodo omnia, quae sunt, lumina sunt?

I was the patriarch of the shining land, Of the blond summer and metallic grain; Men vanished at the motion of my hand, And when I beckoned they would come again. The earth grew dense with grain at my desire; The shade was deepened at the springs and streams; Moving in dust that clung like pillared fire, The gathering herds grew heavy in my dreams. Across the mountains, naked from the heights, Down to the valley broken settlers came, And in my houses feasted through the nights, Rebuilt their sinews and assumed a name. In my clear rivers my own men discerned The motive for the ruin and the crime— Gold heavier than earth, a wealth unearned, Loot, for two decades, from the heart of Time. Metal, intrinsic value, deep and dense, Preanimate, inimitable, still, Real, but an evil with no human sense, Dispersed the mind to concentrate the will. Grained by alchemic change, the human kind Turned from themselves to rivers and to rocks; With dynamite broke metal unrefined; Measured their moods by geologic shocks. With knives they dug the metal out of stone; Turned rivers back, for gold through ages piled, Drove knives to hearts, and faced the gold alone; Valley and river ruined and reviled; Reviled and ruined me, my servant slew, Strangled him from the figtree by my door. When they had done what fury bade them do, I was a cursing beggar, stripped and sore. What end impersonal, what breathless age, Incontinent of quiet and of years, What calm catastrophe will yet assuage This final drouth of penitential tears?

There they go marching all in step so gay! Smooth-cheeked and golden, food for shells and guns. Blithely they go as to a wedding day, The mothers' sons. The drab street stares to see them row on row On the high tram-tops, singing like the lark. Too careless-gay for courage, singing they go Into the dark. With tin whistles, mouth-organs, any noise, They pipe the way to glory and the grave; Foolish and young, the gay and golden boys Love cannot save. High heart! High courage! The poor girls they kissed Run with them : they shall kiss no more, alas! Out of the mist they stepped-into the mist Singing they pass.

Jook joint's about to come alive! It's like a bee outside a hive; And when the hive begins to hum, It's like a dim and distant drum; And when the drum begins to beat, It's like a circus down the street; And when the street begins to fill, It's like a sudden summer chill; And just as summer simmers down, It's like the fireworks over town. Don't matter what the preachers say — This congregation's here to stay 'Cause when the jook joint comes alive Is when the Delta blues arrive!

Continue to pour my thoughts out on this topic of discussion Slow down, I keep gettin the feeling that I’m rushin Like my cousin’s dying breaths, or the decision that was made But lemme backtrack, letting feelings get in the way A normal adolescent, aspiring for the highest Goals that were attainable, wanted to be the flyest We all searchin for something we’ve made a pact to do The drive of ambition, it’s in us, it’s in you Now snatch every dream that a mother had for her son And replace that with a breath, “Baby, just take another one!” A white man’s gun, the very courier of evil He left, enjoyed his night, but the gunshots were lethal Deceitful, everything we’ve been told from the start We’ve more than just some ghetto thugs, these thoughts split us apart What you must understand is our culture bore from oppression The Hip Hop inside of us a form of expression I wish I had the chance to explain to Jordan’s killer That the song “Beef” by Lil Reese shouldn’t label him a dealer Or is he ignorant or another ghetto thug? Do you understand that your ignorance filled him with 3 slugs? I don’t want sympathy and I don’t want affection I want this country to head in the right direction Instead of discussin who the Grammys should be awardin Work to prevent murders like those of my cousin, Jordan.

Who says that fictions only and false hair Become a verse? Is there in truth no beauty? Is all good structure in a winding stair? May no lines pass, except they do their duty Not to a true, but painted chair? Is it no verse, except enchanted groves And sudden arbours shadow coarse-spun lines? Must purling streams refresh a lover's loves? Must all be veil'd, while he that reads, divines, Catching the sense at two removes? Shepherds are honest people; let them sing; Riddle who list, for me, and pull for prime; I envy no man's nightingale or spring; Nor let them punish me with loss of rhyme, Who plainly say, my God, my King.

In that very first episode the transmission is received on the starship Enterprise that Space Commander Dominguez urgently needs his supplies. Kirk tells Uhura to assure him that the peppers are “prime Mexican reds but he won’t die if he goes a few more days without ’em.” Calm down Mexican. You can wait a few more days to get your chile peppers. In the corner of my eye I see Uhura’s back hand twitch and though I never see him on the screen I image José giving Kirk a soplamoco to the face. But this is the year 2266 and there are Latinos in Outer Space! We never see them, but they’ve survived with their surnames and their desire, deep in the farthest interplanetary reaches, for a little heat to warm the bland food on the starbase at Corinth 4. As it is on earth so it shall be in heaven. Ricardo Montalbán will show up 21 episodes later to play a crazy mutant Indio, superhuman and supersmart who survived two centuries to slap Kirk around and take over his ship.

his eyelids like a moth’s fringed wings. Arms flail against the Ninja Turtle sheet and suddenly-long legs race time. Awake, he’s a water-leak detector, a recycling ranger who bans Styrofoam and asks for beeswax crayons, a renewable resource. He wants to adopt the Missouri river, write the president to make factories stop polluting. They’re old friends, he and George Bush. He writes and scolds the president, every month or so, about the bombing the children of Iraq (he made his own sign to carry in protest), about the plight of the California condor and northern gray wolf, about more shelters and aid for the homeless. The lion-shaped bulletin board in his room is covered with pictures and letters from George, who must be nice, even if he is a slow learner. Joseph is a mystery fan, owns 54 Nancy Drews. Nancy’s his friend, along with Jo, Meg, and Amy and poor Beth, of course, whom he still mourns. He also reads of knights and wizards, superheroes, and how to win at Nintendo. The cats and houseplants are his to feed and water and the sunflower blooming in the driveway’s border of weeds. He drew our backyard to scale, using map symbols, sent off to have it declared an official wildlife refuge, left a good-night note on my pillow, written in Egyptian hieroglyphs. In my life, I have done one good thing.

Oh mighty City of New York! you are wonderful to behold, Your buildings are magnificent, the truth be it told, They were the only thing that seemed to arrest my eye, Because many of them are thirteen storeys high. And as for Central Park, it is lovely to be seen, Especially in the summer season when its shrubberies and trees are green; And the Burns’ statue is there to be seen, Surrounded by trees, on the beautiful sward so green; Also Shakespeare and Sir Walter Scott, Which by Englishmen and Scotchmen will ne’er be forgot. There the people on the Sabbath-day in thousands resort, All loud, in conversation and searching for sport, Some of them viewing the menagerie of wild beasts there, And also beautiful black swans, I do declare. And there’s beautiful boats to be seen there, And the joyous shouts of the children do rend the air, While the boats sail along with them o’er Lohengrin Lake, And the fare is five cents for children and adults ten is all they take. And there’s also summer-house shades and merry-go-rounds, And with the merry laughter of the children the Park resounds During the livelong Sabbath day, Enjoying the merry-go-round play. Then there’s the elevated railroads, about five storeys high, Which the inhabitants can see and hear night and day passing by, Oh! such a mass of people daily do throng, No less than five hundred thousand daily pass along, And all along the City you can get for five cents, And, believe me, among the passengers there are few discontent. And the top of the houses are all flat, And in the warm weather the people gather to chat, Besides on the house-tops they dry their clothes, And also many people all night on the house-tops repose. And numerous ships and steamboats are there to be seen, Sailing along the East River Water so green; ’Tis certainly a most beautiful sight To see them sailing o’er the smooth water day and night. And Brooklyn Bridge is a very great height, And fills the stranger’s heart with wonder at first sight, But with all its loftiness, I venture to say, For beauty it cannot surpass the new Railway Bridge of the Silvery Tay. And there’s also ten thousand rumsellers there, Oh! wonderful to think, I do declare! To accommodate the people of That city therein, And to encourage them to commit all sorts of sin. And on the Sabbath-day, ye will see many a man Going for beer with a tin can, And seems proud to be seen carrying home the beer To treat his neighbours and family dear. Then at night numbers of the people dance and sing, Making the walls of their houses to ring With their songs and dancing on Sabbath night, Which I witnessed with disgust, and fled from the sight. And with regard to New York and the sights I did see, One street in Dundee is more worth to me, And, believe me, the morning I sailed from New York For Bonnie Dundee, my heart it felt as light as a cork.

I look out the window in upstate New York, see the Mediterranean stretching out below me down the rocky hillside at Faro, three years, two months, fourteen days earlier . 8:25 A. M. Rosemary gone back to sleep, pink & white . I stand at the livingroom window drinking coffee, open the doors to the balcony . Warmth beginning, tho I wrap my hands around the cup, count fishing boats in the sunglare, moving shoreward now slowly, or sitting there motionless on the flat sea . a fat blue arm stretches out from the coast, ripples where wind and currents show muscle below the blue skin of sea stretched out below me . The coffee’s cold toward the end of the cup . I go back to the kitchen for more hot . put orange in bathrobe pocket, reach for knife, return to the balcony with the fresh cup where the flat blue sea fills my eye in the sunglare . stretches out below me. The Southern Tier:    the maple outside the window warms in the early sun . red buds at the ends of branches commence their slow bursting . Green soon Joan moves her legs against mine in the hall, goes down to start my egg . Carlos thumps the lower stairs . We move. All our farewells al- ready prepared inside us   .   aaaall our deaths we carry inside us, double-yolked, the fragile toughness of the shell   .   it makes sustenance possible, makes love    possible as the red buds break against the sunglight possible green, as legs move against legs possible softnesses     .     The soft-boiled egg is ready now  . Now we eat. 19  .  IV  .  71