Reynolds & Midway XXIII.

I heard it said that Jeremiah from ere

his yanking forth into the stunning sun
was smote with God & never recoverd.
It occurred to me, who had crept on 50 yrs
I was also stuck with an intransigent trust,
if not refined to a rapt Franciscan swoon,
in God, with whom it was also said Spinoza
was saturated, Deleuze and Hegel saying
something else about the blessèd Jew
whom Santayana postulated had thought,
to paraphrase:the finest thought on God
ever conceived, or was that someone else ?
is that a botched rendition of his words ?
I ask because I will not look it up.
Won't. I prefer my mirky recollection;
but you can look it up ,if so compelld.
I don't care to. There's too much at one's touch,
too many pages, too much information.
And information? How are we informd?
There's data, and there is information;
there's noise, and there in the noise is something,
or one would hope, to know, or to believe,
if that's the best we can do;but mostly chaff
and not much wheat. And there are liars,
sniggering jongleurs: lemon screws
in the soft machine, piranas in a net
clotted with krill & killifish, to mix
one's metaphorical laying of blame. & blame
He sd, he does, but let's be clear. I do not speak
of the good or bad, but of the ugly
wi said. The ugly on the left & on the right.
The left, the sinister, unorthodox
fighter's stance: right knuckle sandwhich first
& fore. Tunney could lick them, & he licked
a lot, the intellectual pugilist,
which is to steer now from the point
which is: the uncomeliness of the handwave,
the scoffing p'shaw, the viperous hiss.
When Reynolds & Midway first crossd ways
he was blueeyed, tall, & hunched his shoulders,
mild, with welder's torch and mask, a chunk
of motor Midway could not fathom, turnd
in his gentle hands, like Rubik's cube, heavy,
a test of intellect, he sd, which meant that I
had none. Later we walked in woodes, among
stands of birch, white, in the silent woodes
in the vale of the Lordly Hudson, Goodman
declaimd, across wide fields. Now let us open
the field, for we be makars allace, you & me,
& it's lang syne wi hadde gangd aglee.
I see your bonny lad, his eyen twei
as blue as thine & cheek to cheek & blonde:
the father as the son. Father & Son
an ither Stevens sang, another Cat
who kneels to Allah in that sunless Albion
where Johnny tanned in English rain, a chune
that brings la sal unto this padre's ojos,
O skying sons, my bravely battling boys:
noses to grindstones, shoulders to the wheel ,
come gimme a squeeze & get the led out, shake
it, shake it, shake. When all   the levies break
we must be quick, skeddadle, & skidoo.

- 12.5.13