this becoming story: from the thirst
of sand or the skirts of neap tide.
There are no orphans here.
Long ago, sun and water were married, they
made love in a turtle shell rattle. Babies arrived:
land, rainbows, birds, animals, people.
Grandmother spider ate them all.
We heard about it, a stiff breeze
in our face. We asked,
could this be the magic ecotone
between Venus and Mars?
The blue green privilege of carbon based life,
rare and precious and assumed.
The magic. More a door than a privilege,
opens into a tower of stairs, it coils
up and up, clockwise and helical into
stunning crisis, a deep healing of Avalon.
The mercies to hold
our noses above the rising tide.
How will the cosmos be invoked and remembered
on the face of this place? Who will sound its glory?
Who will pass along its perfect vision,
perfect body, perfect knowledge?
Today, the world is red with Dionysus,
his brimming grail to provide an eye in the storm.
Supper’s on, my friend! Let’s toast
the fingers and knees bobbing about his wormy feast!
Let’s pray the digits, drumming the table,
can summon the crazy wisdom of Heyoka, can bait
the specter of monkey wrench. When I look up, I want
to thrust a middle finger at the Milky Way, for practice.
Once there was no time, no gods,
No woman, no man. Sea swallowed the land.
Along a foamy edge a mare was born.
Her name - Eiocha.
We are that hapless menagerie, constellating cosmic creation,
cornucopic marvels of calamity, who
resonate in an entropy of forgetfulness, and
bow to the industry of a Big Bang.
Let us love Aergia too. Love how
her sloth grinds down manifest destiny into
cobbles and sand, the roots of mountain
in service to stardust and gravity.
There are days, the cosmos cradles folly
like a box of cracker jacks with bruised
shins and elbows, the prize inside.
A bloodless coup on the flat screened life.
Here is our chance to yield the floor,
give free will a rest and spend
the next millennium in witness.
To take a glacial nap.
Out of the song of cicada,
a ballad of seven years in silence -
a dog’s age to gather, it swells,
a fifth dimension - breath and sound.
How to hold all this - story floating, flying,
swimming in, each a sacred space.
Each a new epoch, capsule of dreams,
blueprint spiraled in nebula of another ilk.
There was once a house where a woman and her man lived.
He wandered the north sky and she walked along the southern horizon.
She grew pregnant, and he drowned in their tears of joy.
The Sky Woman gave birth to trouble.
Make my skin a peat bog to preserve
a childhood of sunlight and wind. My poems,
the compost of fossil fuel economy and
the intransigence of stubby limbs and fins.
All is born of story: the conjuring of root children,
crinoids consoling cedars in their limestone beds.
The monsters in asteroids and typhoons,
the broad toes of stromatolites.
All in magic, so all abide.