3
It was a fragrant flagrant night, yes,
when they laid him in his tomb.
So do not, daughters of Jerusalem,
let love arise, until it please.
Unbeknownst to C I watched her
bobsail back up Hope Street NNW
toward 132, our nostradomus –
remembering our young spring flower
so long ago. Magnolias and dogwoods,
mountain laurel; drenched air
drenched with scented seeds (where
Governor met Benevolent, at Aldrich House).
I helped you off with your Italian boots.
The year was 1976. The freddo roses,
gone. A box of myrrh. She chooses
me. Prima, primavera. Adam roots,
Eve threads, the flowergarden grew
out of a broken box of myrrh, the bark
of an Egyptian riverboat. Q ark
for love, so prodigaL We never knew
that seedy, burgeoning night was in
a Botticelli ship, within a Venus shell.
We never knew enough. Your smile
an apple, in my hand, a gold lion.
The ship's a coffin, freighted for Byzantium.
A well-made benison from Venice –
wooden horse, Greek gift – Odysseus
in rags, returned, memorious. Come home.
*
He swayed the girls into his orbit –
let them swirl him to his grave.
His endless tale – too snarled to save.
His loveline ends – obit.
In the spring snow on Valentine's Day
I watched a goldfinch with a black-eyed
Susan look (like Bluejay) – paralyzed –
circle around the Courthouse (clay
penny in love with copper). Proper
Irish islomania. Unlucky once, unlucky
twice, in the heart's greenhouse – greedy
with risen love–too-much – her
fevered night-in-gale. Ah, those Irish eyes,
oh, that overflowing sister-love –
nard of Leonardo – graven
in his hermitage. The goldfinch flies
out of the lapwing of nativity.
One drop of blood (her ruby glance
across the silent white expanse
of Neva-land). Epiphany.
He swayed the girls into his orbit –
let them swirl him to his grave.
His endless tale – too snarled to save.
His loveline ends – obit.
The scent grows heavier. The pink magnolias
bend and fall. Go to sleep now
in your coffin-cup, Henry – throw
away your name –- only an H remains,
and a red wheel, circling, circles.
Only an H, seasick on the Orizaba,
aching to join his Juliet, an oily baba
in the desert night. Rusted, curls
around a sunken stump. Corralled.
An unknown code beneath his course.
Black hole, infallen purse,
inspiralled.
Beneath his corse. Ding-
dong. Shared
gong-shard.
Remorse.
And again in the far distance and again
the line of evening geese lifts high
and portages honking on toward Canada.
A candid pining, fateful sigh, hand
woven – unicurve, across the blue.
You plucked the gold forsythia,
feet softly planted on the moss. Pythia's
a vision over Venice – Peter's bird, she flew. . .
It was a fragrant flagrant night, yes,
when they laid him in his tomb.
So do not, daughters of Jerusalem,
let love arise, until it please.
*
Daman dave yuwinangwa yuwi-gena,
Daman dave yuwinangwa yuwi-genor.
Nuwe nuwe nuwigenor nuwigenor,
nuwe nuwe nuwigenor nuwigena.
Missing H in the Exchange [tired]
whale hail against the wall [repeat 1st part?]
Moby Crane – heart-shaped anchor [art?]
mordant means glued H to the wall – fIred
in fresca [fresco?] go back to the beginning here,
Dr. Preskill the precedent for Kip's thorn?
Hawking bet his raven radiation
for one encyclopedia [NY
Times, April 8, 1998 – science section]
dry ice carries mass away
might mean lawlessness in physics – any
more info on the Death Ray? – good question.
Run the film backward, that's micro-
reversibility. Splinter particles
become shards cascading [see the articles]
more littler shards [def.: "micro"]
[why is that waitress glaring at me?
Just because I always order the same thing?]
Spacetime aberrations in a sing-
ularity [hilarity here? – not funny]
is Q mechanics people versus relativity profs.
Head to head – big heads! Black hole
folks vs. info preservationists [bowl
shaped multiverse?] – see G. t'Hooft's
theory about that – but is it a theory?
Where's Bluejay now? He would know.
Information loss is highly infectious – so
they say. . .
Dugu ba-gaganana dugu ba-gaganan,
Dugu ba-gaganana dugu ba-gaganan.
Dugu saiyog-anana dugu saiyog-anan ena,
Dugu saiyog-anana dugu saiyog-anan ena.
A black hole has no hair. [bald?]
Still using PASCAL language here?
If you dropped v. 29 of Britannica
into a black hole. . . we are lost at sea.
Because everything is sucked into. . . maybe
a whole other baby universe? [more on that?]
But information cannot be destroyed [what
time is it? Thank you.] Is it a BB
gun – the universe, I mean? Bang, bang, get it?
Beep beep the baby's up.
There might be – yup –
remnant particles. Obsolete –
infinite parameters long – just slogging along
swallowing brits [don't make a habit of it]
these black whales might be strings – 10 to the it
dimensions! [Leo Suss says so long!]
Informons, infotons [heavy!], cornucopions [whew!]
these are what we have to deal with –
all info hologrammed on a surf the width
of only two dimensions! And that's one too few!
Dugu ba-gaganana dugu ba-gaganan,
dugu ba-gaganana dugu ba-gaganan.
Dugu saiyog-anana dugu saiyog-anan ena,
dugu saiyog-anana dugu saiyog-anan ena.
There was darkness in broad day. Moon
red. September, October, tremor in Assisi.
Giotto's grieving angels. . . gentle clay
came drifting down. Even
Assisi. Leveled.
The dome trembled
by the Kedron, humbled
(the priest–felled).
The night garden swelled
(your earthworm sleep,
your time, your deep,
swelled, filled).
Your voice tolled,
sighed (your
clay, your
mold)
the wind.
Pines,
ines.
ind
(sounds'
womb).
OM
n.
Bees.
See.
Sh.
E.
Daman dave yuwinangwa yuwi-gena,
daman dave yuwinangwa yuwi-genor.
Nuwe nuwe nuwigenor nuwigenor,
nuwe nuwe nuwigenor nuwigena.
*
Catch us the little foxes, Solomon,
that spoil our vineyard. Lucky,
true love's the cardinal pt (sd Bluejay).
A monde, almond. All made. I thirsty, mon.
Henry, beside his cup and flying saucer,
shrouded, canonical, fed it all back –
a lost supper, chef'd by a black sea-hack.
His memoir, gyring, filled it to the top ce soir.
A mourning kiss, portrayed by Leonardo,
lion. King of Bongo Kongo, hero lion of iron.
In a locked greenhouse, with siren.
Do re mi fa so and so, and so on. So.
Dip the waif in the drink. Have a pig roast.
On Friday, just for kicks – or eat fish
with a dead man. Swish,
down he goes. A toast
to the po guy. Photo
in the honeycomb.
Lisbon, Rome.
Eddy, eddies. . . love, in toto,
Papa–for I am sick of love!
Honeybees, Aristaeus, Orpheus.
He remembered her on moss,
black & white – dove
to the bottom of her heart. And
the old man trembles for her,
unbeknownst, sorrower –
clasps close the cedar locket.
Jewel of your life.
Burns blackstone,
diamond. One
cruel grief.
Upon a Roman rood was fixt
clay lips gone underground. Still
through the pinedoor, drifted sound.
Her calling me. A morning rose. Finixt.
A thin ray from a whispering star fell
through a break in the burning hot wailing
wall. He was suddenly outside, standing.
At last he was standing – gazing in the well
of a steadfast star. In the old wooden frame
the icon seemed alive, smiling, an island
in his hand. Her eyes, pale green, beckoned
him forward again. . . stand here, without shame.
In her hands, the box of myrrh, the door.
As though the scent of lost time
retained there, on its golden rim,
dimensional. . . shore
upon shore, shore upon shore.
Scrolled, from impossible spans,
from impenetrable regions. . .
one thin melody. A score
for wheeling voices, mixolydian
and Mexican, earthbound.
Round wound, wound
once, twice. . . fractured. Peruvian.
Upon a Roman rood was fixt
clay lips gone underground. Still
through the pinedoor, drifted sound.
Her calling me. A morning rose. Finixt.
The cup runs to the verge, the oil
candescent now, the song flows over,
flows into the gulf. Plover,
seagull cry above hollow toil
of the overloaded vessel – Captain Fatso,
carting home that prancing lord, all bronze.
His eyes are blank. No one responds.
The meeker skipper, though – we know
his name – it must be Juan Diego!
Standing naked–sheer–like limestone cliff
or Queequeg, at the prow of quaking skiff–
head spinning – row, row, row your. . .
Rose.
Climbs
through time's
zeros. Ever. Eros.
Soars. And wheels there, silver-
heeled, Elohim, healed, soars.
Afloat through gravity floors
you – your palaver
palace races now toward
your own heart
craning art
straining word
lifting opening the chest of flowers
and the nest flies open doves veering
wheeling in a V over the cheering
towering stone calendar's –
Catch us the little foxes, Solomon,
that spoil our vineyard. Lucky,
true love's the cardinal pt (sd Bluejay).
A mande, almond. All made. I thirsty, mon.
*
Upon a Roman rood was fixt
clay lips gone underground. Still
through the pinedoor,drifted sound.
Her calling me. A morning rose. Finixt.
Catch us the little foxes, Solomon,
that spoil our vineyard. Lucky,
true love's the cardinal pt (sd Bluejay).
A monde, almond. All made. I thirsty, mon.
It was a fragrant flagrant night, yes,
when they laid him in his tomb.
So do not, daughters of Jerusalem,
let love arise, until it please.
He swayed the girls into his orbit –
let them swirl him to his grave.
His endless tale – too snarled to save.
His loveline ends – obit.
Daman dave yuwinangwa yuwi-gena,
daman dave yuwinangwa yuwi-genor.
Nuwe nuwe nuwigenor nuwigenor,
nuwe nuwe nuwigenor nuwigena.
Dugu ba-gaganana dugu ba-gaganan,
dugu ba-gaganana dugu ba-gaganan.
Dugu saiyog-anana dugu saiyog-anan ena,
dugu saiyog-anana dugu saiyog-anan ena.
4.9.98 (Maundy Thursday)
Nostradomus
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