Reynolds & Midway XL

              Extra-large, for Tirds McGee

But he was not ambitious, not this Robert,

& when it dawnd that he was 35

it simply dawnd. Still the woman slept,

& he slid from the never entirely comfortable

starch-stiff sheets, feet on the neat low carpet,

& took a thought of circulation, twinkld

1^st & 2^nd piggy, which one went

to market, which had roast beef, which had none

was in the gloss of never honord promises,

hopefully few, & unassembled features

of faces floating pell-mell that were once

crisp portraits, words & strings of words that made

rememberd poems some were nearly loaves

& [something] space where two could walk abreast

Midway had one or two of Milton's devils'

oratories memorized, not to recite

at school, but for his own good, for we read it

on our own, & like sweet Junketts we were dunkd

in what wld overcome us w such love

that words cannot give proper testimony|

This much is truth, & do not think to doubt it:

This much is sacred: matter, motion, language:

Words. For without words we are without

ourselves, dumb, incapacitated,

ineffectual, inert, alone (Haig)

in bondage to the bone & sinew,

slaves to our primitive & reptilian natures

that scrap & tussle in the skull machine

w those 2 'R's: Reason & Rationality,

this our endowment, our eternal bondage,

stamp of our race & heritage, our commonality,

things we shunnd so long, nearly a half

century blind to this constant undercurrent,

this strong & binding life force Jung yclept

collective unconcious,  Rand condemnd,

wich condemnation we believed was sound

whan we believed too little, or too much.

& so he rose, & while the woman slept

put on his clothes & scribbld a parting note,

and silent slippd into the murky dawn.

But what of him? Only to say he haunts

and stalks the fringes of a work in progress,

a subtext, best forgotten; a confession

of something better not confessd to. Once,

he was the rounded, Mediterranean olive,

a subtle twist of lime in a straight Martini,

an even subtler curve in the arrow that missd,

that whistled wasted into a thicket,

or twangd innocuous in an apple's bark.

Meanwhile the Lord, Who tarried 40 days

& beat the devil silly whilst His belly

gnawd, hath daily witnessd this corruption,

hath temperately restraind His own right arm,

& guided gently w His tender hand

that all of us should keep the narrow path,

forgive the evils done to us, forget

the evils we wld do unto ourselves,

the poisons in the blood that flood the mind

& alter nature, skewer consciousness

w welcome wands that thrill while they destroy,

that bring sweet magic & the bitter dearth

of aftermaths that ring the panic bells

of slow-encroaching sick sobriety—

the dreadful drizzle-dazzle of reality. 

¶ It's then we need, says Reynolds, the godly cudgel,

the loving stick, as Mr. Christian wanted,

that Billy Bligh had tried on that too coddled

tattooed hide that overlong had lain

docile, unmilitant, effeminate,

supperd with lust & calm satiety,

shaded w palms, hands softend by the breasts

of wilderness, his mental state an Adam

among a thousand Eves. I saw them scatter,

in a dream, my wasted billions, a flash of fish,

an instantaneous diaspora, gone

to blackness, blind, oblivion.

4.26.14