Reynolds & Midway XXI

This is the font David, David having

many significances, if that's a coinage,
if not, it is now, the first significance being
Solomon's Pop & slayer of Goliath,
He of the harp & sling, king & soldier;
also my brother's middle name; & Dovid,
Menke's son, to raise a cry for remembrance,
he of the great locks & the beard of Adam,
primaeval father, & first to raise rebellion:
a poisond headship, down from son to son,
& father of the first red hand of murder
in ancient acreage of husbandry;
progenitor of jealousy, & the seven 7
deadly paths to desolation, weeping,
tearing of hair & Jewry cast like doung,
like seeds of the dandelion, scatterd
impotent & wailing, drying seeds
unfecund in the ditch: a stink in the nostrils
for graven imagery, concupiscence,
& lifted skirts showing the opulent rumps
of whoredom | had enough? he asked, art-
fully flipping the soggy end of a cheroot
to the western side of his wide & parched mouth
& squinting like the blonde & pistold hero
whose spurs jangled in Italy; & Midway
shook his head, keep it coming, for we are
a lot of snorting swine, & swaggring sows
that swivel, swill-drunk, petulant, thankless
pigs & hogs, led through the abattoir,
that is, which are not little sheep: quhite lambkins
gaily galumphing, clumsily galloping
& heedful of the shepherd's call & staff,
yappt into line by smart unslavering dogs:
obedient canines, not like urchin curs
at fireplugs, furtive, snarling at mild milkmen |
Whan he stopt and there was a serious spark-
El in his eye, for he had gatherd up
too many labels for the same object,
wich was our subject, or is that the object ?
which brings us once again to Bishop Berkeley,
where Wi hath never been erstwhile, I reckon
in these soliloquies, these silly & daffy
dialogues, & this one peckt whilst deep
in Yirmiyahu, that uneasy prophet
whom with I've broken bread & come to terms
with mine owne hertes infidelitie
& shame for speaking of my Lord & standing
on His holy Word, & hiding in the cedars.
O Gilead, O Lebanon, hear my cry,
O Father high in Heaven, I have put
mine idols down & coverd up their faces,
& turnd to You, my LORD, the Lord of hostes,
O Laird of oists, wich is to mind of Gawin
thy faithful servant, Bishop of Dunkeld,
teller of Vergil to the common rabble,
of golden tongue & true humilitie,
quho brocht me back to that John Smith
who got it over with & took a jump,
& landed hard, & was not than a chump,
liken to those who but proclaim & prate it,
quod Frank of California, San Berdino,
maestro, unbeliever intransigent
unto his death-bed. I can hear him deeply
resonate: ram it up your snout,
or poopchute*, even if ye been a ladie.
But God hath made the world & He hath made
the black hole & the asshole*, all within
His perfect meditation: there be none
of nature nor of man not of His making,
no note of pitch nor word of song, no thought
can have its birth unless the germ is Him,
the gist, genius & genesis of All,
the Alpha & the Maker of megadeath,
Who hath ordaind the Sabbath & the right
to break the Law: in His Son Yeshua,
Immanuel, the Morning Star, the King
of Kings; in Him & only Him Who walkd
on Galilee and made the waters calm,
who fed the multitudes, who lifted up
the lame, the shamed, the losers of the world,
the poor, the shoeless, all the homeless masses
quashed silent, helpless, weeping, by the heel
of wanton Industrie & Usury—
which brings us back to Ezra, he whose name
I saw as Erza, head mired in my nether part
& eyes distracted, never focused, blind
to all but me & me & more of me—
of Idaho, whose pen was not a lume
spento but loud & harsh & accurate
who made Hugh Selwyn Mauberley & sd
I, even I, in mimick not in mockery
of Yahweh, who did shew to Yirmiyahu
that He was Lord & that He meant business,
not this milktoast & wishywashy pile
of vowels & consonants that poets dream
will give them glory permanent & hope
beyond the blink of their mortality,
allowing the inversion for the moment,
albeit it rankles & someday will go
the way of the lemming & the Dodo Byrd.
Estop this talk of cliffs & bridges please
sd Reynolds, holding in his hand a pack
of cards, to shew a trick, or tell a tale,
I know not, rather let us play a hand
of 21, and round this whole thing out.