June 21, 2016 § Leave a comment
Heavy of mouth and heavy of tongue,
this Laud was a beautiful boy—
the Hebrews called him beautiful, or fine.
As a boy, he reached for Pharaoh’s
crown when the two they were alone.
But an angel guided Laud his hand
to the lurid coals. And burned, he stuck
his scorch’ed fingers into his mouth,
damaging his tongue. Disfluent now,
the Loves remain good enough to whisper
truths into his heart, and provide him
peace and contact and a kind of end to these mortifications.
June 15, 2016 § Leave a comment
In the beginning,
where was the world?
The world was the sea?—
Wait. Wait. We all know
(well) how Fortune plays
the surface god
of the rolling sea.
& how the sea now
stays with Laud, in his
hours of need,
which are becoming
more and more frequent.
Laud’s needs help Laud
with the abstraction
the discussion of
which can quickly
One thing Laud lacks not
would be humanity—
the second or fourth
A story don’t explain it
but it certainly
happened, somewhere, back
there. Left the rest of us
wicked & away:
born to break butterflies
on the wheel, ever since
obsessed with telling
stories. Call it a fall,
or a winding up,
it matters not. You can’t
take the eggs out of
the batter now. Can’t take
the batter out of the cage.
Even as individuals,
we erect the
infirmity of the world.
June 2, 2016 § Leave a comment
Before there was earth or sea or the sky
that covers everything, the face of Nature
in a vast expanse was naught but Chaos,
a raw confused mass—inert matter,
badly combined, discordant atoms of things
confused in a heap. As yet the sun afforded
earth no light, nor did the moon renew her
crescent horns, the earth not yet hovering
in surrounding air, balanced by her own weight,
nor watery Amphitrite stretching out
her arms along the vast shores of the world.
For all the land was mixed with sea and air,
& it was unstable land, unswimmable
water, air needing light. Nothing retained
its shape, one thing obstructed another,
because in the one body, cold fought with heat,
moist with dry, soft with hard,
and weight with weightless things.
— Ovid, Metamorphoses
T’was then through the world (at sleep),
Laud watched eccentrics fashion
to move & balance weight,
&, making made where made was not,
start the stern expanse toward
obliquity. The ruler end
of this unpouring [Man.],
in spite of future self-conceit
& violence of pride, lies
as yet uncreated,
perhaps still fated to grow,
& be corrupted. Even then
Laud lived, weighing heavy once
his mother’s womb [As all gods
are given birth (once) before
time begins & then again
inside of time.], when each resplendent
orb springs forth, obedient
to its cause, evidently,
following fast—a rolling earth,
after the manner of the
milky way: a vast,chaotic wild.
& warm, remembered Laud.
Even after, in ancient books
described, before he lost himself
in thought, Laud remembered how it
was on the quick at the very edge.
April 16, 2016 § Leave a comment
Laud brushed out
The Hero’s Journey Defined [ a text.]
Having lately forgotten
How a hero ventures forth
From the world of common experience
Into a region of supernatural wonder.
Fabulous forces are there encountered
And a decisive victory is won.
The hero, ’membered Laud,
Always comes back
From this mysterious adventure
changed, & with the power to
bestow boons on his fellow man.
April 5, 2016 § Leave a comment
Mirandized (Laud), & then released,
in a ponderous gloom & a having been filled
with the allegorical image of war:
lightning flashing straight away like straight would be
but fair again. For thrice he was (or once
we thought) all yielded up, his sad protectorate.
This English Laud he learned as a boy, &
so did’st move by sinews weak to speak some first
endeavouring. But still, must Laud hear?
Shall coarse, clampowdered peers crack his creaking
couplets on to make a wounded point?
“When I do pray,” prayed Laud, “it’s all a wondering
what to say? what to burry? topmost down?
into the terror-shaking Earth?”
April 1, 2015 § Leave a comment
A lubricious innamorato, Laud
plots daylong to please his mistresses—
as the prisoner thinks oftener of escape
than the jailor of shutting the door.
In the morning
When he was young, Laud culled what he needed
from codices, with thoughtful interventions
by the kinder sea creatures. And there were
many others Laud passed by on his soft
anointed way toward majority.
Now he’s thinking in
lascivious circles about Echo
personified: A galling type! Too resolved
to hold the joke too long,’till it ceases
to be a joke, and becomes instead
a metaphor for something lost or eternal
Laud was not always so out of sorts.
He sometimes sat under willows’ shade; once
burned in the sun, could not complain.
February 23, 2015 § Leave a comment
Seasons are short (& everyone complains).
Laud needs some new rejoicing song, or to
let praises of him be heard, and to maybe
lie with Beauty for what remains. Because
it’s not livingspace Laud needs. Or a way
to press himself a way inwards, emerging thus:
a saint-in-plaster. But windfall, suppose,
is what Laud needs. Sporadic, perhaps, is
the new intelligent. Design can add
new dimensions to our lives, might let
Israel rejoice in God, and make
the children of slaves strong enough
to say so—or let these seeds fall
on the floor, or goodness go out the world.