Reynolds & Midway XLI

                       torture me, Father, lest not I be thine! 
                                   - John Berryman, Homage to Mistress Bradstreet  [39]

Fare forward; unmind the lost, the hollowmen.

Who hath not Christ w/in him? Pity him.

& put Christ there, plant seeds & shld you touch,

touch gently, as when He replaced & heald

the severd ear. Be watchful in the garden,

awake, nor sleep like the disciples leaning

lax against the olives, for He Who made kittens

put snakes in the grass (I.A.), now brace your heel

for a good stomping, remember good men,

and good women, persevere, endure,

& gain strength in prayer. O if only, breathd

Midway, I had any, his legs spindly,

fear racing thru him like electric current,

guts a twist. Make sure the badge is straight,

right breast, a rabbit quickly dips its head

& chews the green it bit, off to the left,

sun high, 'round 80°, w sumer iccumin

in, & luhde sing cuckoo

& springeth the woode nu

or some such— Pound's Goddamn

the stupidest thing he ever wrote— to right

Osborne, intersecting Claremont, crosses

everywhere, telephone poles, crucifixes,

crossings, Our Dear Lord dangling at his breast

tapping his heart, that Goodly Fere they hangd

upon the tree, to thoughts of Blatty,

another Billy, fallen to his knees

in tears to see w his own eyes remains

of Peter, how the vision came to him

for Dimiter, wich Midway hath not grokt

& must go thru again, now thru the door

he turns the handle w the left hand,

& first things first: to his immediate left

the water ! O Water of life, he takes in hand

and lifts it gently from the skiddish table

dressd for Cinco de Mayo, girlish boots,

sombrero, on soft browns & aquamarine

or turqoise papery covering the scuffd woode,

yesterday's water at half-level, he grips

the plexiglass beveridge dispenser w spigot

& says his shy helloes to med-tech, business

office manager & personal care assistant,

furtive, his eyes avoid their sacred beauty,

scans faux plants & posted regulations,

last months Easter bunnies & piano,

all the while in his head the secret question,

Will it be fire or ice, as askd the poet

whose lines of stonemade fences & swung birches

frilld the waysides of his slim green brain

along w Robinson's sheaves & Tennyson's

bardic yawping: things like spate spring up:

a young man in the Idyls, whatsisname,

his mother mourning early for his glorious

youth's demeeez, as Bob Shaw's Quint explains

in that seafaring epic Spielberg made

that made him many millions, for remember

God's alive inside a movie (Reid)

& speaks & sings & laughs, to you, mon frere,

to you & only you, so don't be bashful.

I lookd into the eyes of my teachers, all

young & beautifully seal-eyed, soldiers

warring in deserts unwalkd by lean bronzd

legs & bellies of shaded tattooed virgins,

drest in my off-white New Age poet's shirt

hips at a feminine angle on the couch,

I watchd Jarhead & learnd. I woke hrs later

face down, confused, a pain in my right side.

I'd fallen, it seemd, tumbled, as if down stairs—

thought Hitchcock Steps, Georgetown, D.C.

For Blatty & Friedkin's film I'd run nightly.

At last, feeling entrapt, I broke the disc—

Subdermal hematoma, read

the paperwork I clutchd awaiting discharge,

not myself, in ego-loss, wristband to tell

my name loose on my girlish wrist,

purple & red blood raised to the skin's surface,

spredd like a sea, escaped from proper vessels,

below the waistline, 'round the back & belly;

but I was glad for the wound & for the pain

wich wasn't insufferable, my life too safe,

too sound, too pink w health & too secure;

for I was to be as my Lord & welcome pain,

thus grateful: dazzled infant in a gown,

a baby spoilt, coddld & overloved,

sick in the head & stupid, stubbld, red

w razor burn, my vapid eyes scanning

the Windexd glass for whom? For where was I?

& why? & who? Later my father laughd:

whan askd my name I answerd, William.

& last name? askd the nurse. Shatner, I sd.

Late 5.2014

An important note, for any understanding of Reynolds & Midway, and other poems

"Turner argues that in the time-models of contemporary cosmological 

and evolutionary science all times may be connected and time may be infinitely 

branched and causally looped so that both forward-in-time and backward-in-

time factors may be in operation in the same event. Thus, the fundamental 

substance of the universe may be information rather than matter or energy. 

The universe is more like a vast living organism than a vast machine."

 - from a 

review of Frederick Turner's book Natural Religion.

Will edit in the reviewer's name, when I know it.

**Please note I do not necessarily subscribe to this view, but find it a fascinating idea.

Reynolds & Midway 41

Fare forward; unmind the atheist, hollowman.

Who hath not Christ w/in him? Pity him.

& put Christ there, plant seeds & shld you touch,

touch gently, as when He replaced & heald

the severd ear. Be watchful in the garden,

awake, nor doze like the disciples leaning

lax against the olives, for He Who made kittens

put snakes in the grass, now brace your heel

for a good stomping, remember good men,

and good women, persevere, endure,

& gain strength in prayer. O if only, breathd

Midway, I had any, his legs spindly,

fear racing thru him like electric current,

guts a twist. Make sure the badge is straight,

right breast, a rabbit quickly dips its head

& chews the green it bit, off to the left,

sun high, 'round 80°, w sumer iccumin

in, & luhde sing cuckoo

& springeth the woode nu

or somesuch Pound's Goddamn

the stupidest thing he ever wrote, to right

Osborne, intersecting Claremont, crosses

everywhere, telephone poles, crucifixes,

crossings, Our Dear Lord dangling at his breast

tapping his heart, that Goodly Fere they hangd

upon the tree, to thoughts of Blatty,

another Billy, fallen to his knees

in tears to see w his own eyes remains

of Peter, how the vision came to him

for Dimiter, wich Midway hath not grokt

& must go thru again, now thru the door

he turns the handle w the left hand,

& first things first: to his immediate left

the water ! O Water of life, he takes in hand

and lifts it gently from the skiddish table

dressd for Cinco de Mayo, girlish boots,

sombrero, on soft browns & aquamarime

or turqoise papery covering the scuffd woode,

yesterday's water at half-level, he grips

the plexiglass beveridge dispenser w spigot

& says his shy helloes to med-tech, business

office manager & personal care assistant,

furtive, his eyes avoid their sacred beauty,

scans faux plants & posted regulations,

last months Easter bunnies & piano,

all the while in his head the secret question,

Will it be fire or ice, as askd the poet

whose lines of stonemade fences & swung birches

frilled the waysides of his slim green brain

along w Robinson's sheaves & Tennyson's

bardic yawping: things like spate spring up:

a young man in the Idyls, whatsisname,

his mother mourning early for his glorious

bud's demeeez, as Bob Shaw's Quint explains

in that seafaring epic Spielberg made

that made him many millions, for remember

God's alive inside a movie (Reid)

& speaks & sings & laughs, to you, mon frere,

to you & only you, so don't be bashful.

I lookd into the eyes of my teachers, all

young & beautifully blueeyed, soldiers

warring in deserts uncandied w lean bronzd

legs & bellies of shaded tattooed virgins

drest in my off-white hippie poet's shirt

hips at a feminine angle on the couch,

I watchd a film° & learnd, & woke hrs later

face down, confused, a pain in my right side.

I'd fallen, it seemd, tumbled, as if down stairs—

? Hitchcock Steps, Georgetown D.C.

Blatty & Friedkin's film had playd nightly.

at last, feeling entrapt, I broke the disc—

Subdermal hematoma, read

the paperwork I clutchd awaiting discharge,

not myself, in ego-loss, wristband to tell

my name loose on my girlish wrist,

purple & red blood raised to the skin's surface,

spredd° like a sea, escaped from proper vessels,

below the waistline, 'round the back & belly;

but I was glad for the wound & for the pain

wich wasn't insufferable, my life too safe,

too sound, too pink w health & too secure;

for I was to be as my Lord & welcome pain,

thus grateful: dazzled infant in a gown,

a baby spoilt, coddld & overloved,

sick in the head & stupid, stubbld, red

w razor burn, my vapid eyes scanning

the Windexd glass for whom? For where was I?

& why? & who? Later my father laughd:

whan askd my name I answerd, William.

& last name? askd the nurse. Shatner, I sd.

Late 5.2014

° Jarhead

° spelld this way by Robert Bridges

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

Reynolds & Midway XXXIX.

Many & sundry londes Reynolds & I

wd ode had we the wherewithal to gang

our bottoms shipboard o'er the winedark sea

like Herman & George Gordon & Percy B

wha shld've left that barc alone & lubberd

landward longer. We'd've seed us Italy

leastways, that limblike land of leg & boot

the toe of wich has at poor Sicily—

til God decrees that time is up & rolls

the final wave upon the final shore

(Be it L.A. or elder HelsingØr

where Hamlet brooded & Ophelia dunkd

her lovely locks for love) —thereat to ogle

Michaelangelo's glorious Sistine Chapel

& his amazing & astonishing David;

also to wend in gondolas in Venice

wherein we'd take our try at a 10^th rate Verdi,

or who ? Rossini whose quick & famous fiddles

fits in my mind metropolis: vasty cities

of high & skinny buildings varicolord

red & pinkish yellowy narrow shruggd,

shrugging to fit as in Amsterdam or any

tightly clusterd urban centre where

we meaning Reynolds & me might hie us

for we have seen in dreams the sparkling hives

that in nocturnal splendor spangle night

like galaxies, engendering piety,

like necklaces of opals, pearls, rubies,

garnets, spilling, flung wild & wide,

but in most terrible & holy order,

in deepest cold, hostile, cruel cohesion

& balance, relentless eternal life that feeds

upon life, merciless killing, natural death

over & over, death from life, life from death,

but 1 consciousness—GOD—

& only 0ne, diffused among quintillions,

One to Whom all memories remain,

to Whom all grief remains, all love & loss

Is His is Hers to suffer & endure

for all the never ending evers ever

in deeply cold & brutal voids of space

& ancient moldering yawning gaps of time

time to remember, time to know & feel,

in blackest sorrow & in growing grief

that blossoms there among the love & light

that comes & comes again, the hope & faith,

the prayer & sacred music, humming hymns

of children chanting reverent orisons

& bowing humbly in contrite petition

faces to earth, eyes closed to pray to One

Prime Mover & Maker of all that move,

Fountain of Love w/o wich none wld love,

not even Christ, the Paradigm & Son

Who wanderd 40 days in wildernesse

& bested Midway's 0ne by 39

4.14.14

Reynolds & Midway XXXVIII

I or we did @ 1 time declaim

that 8 the # signald single-digitally

was representative of infinitie

when toppled o'er & lying on its side

& then went on to say that that #

whan represented on a digital clock

containd within itself all other numbers.

But here we cannot shew you how this is

and you will need to bring to centre stage

& in the spotlight—that thin lemon wedge

that clever pepil say is consciousness,

the image of the number eight as rectangle:

right angles top & bottom, right & left.

& in this image, all the numbers live,

This attribute is special to the 8

whan renderd squarely, brightly. This we think

a special correlation, and a sign,

and to it we significance assign,

for number eights made sharply angled aint

what was when number 8 tipt over meant

eternity, leastways when eggheads sd

that that was what that then wld signify.

Now are you with us? Do you understand,

which is to stand under, in the light

within wich ray you have epiphany?

Than all is well and on we may continue

and on & on but wither is the ?

Anon says this, other anon says that.

We tunnel w/ anons thru earth w/ stones

& bones, where ancient wood in fetid loam

crumbles like velvet cake, let us go on

& further downward, down & deeper down

where went Clark Ashton Smith & Robert Blair,

Lovecraft & Poe, E. Howard, Baudelaire,

to pungent dark decay, decrepitude

of pile on pile of generations buried

unsung & scantly monumented spirits

under in ooze of gravid mouldering compost

moss & treebark, root & roots long deep

roots downward threading deltaed branches

networkt nature's conjuring consciousness

in progress yet they say w/o knowledge

yet how can that which hath no vision forge

machinery for sight, that wich is deaf

form the ear-drum ? How in unknowing

process persevere to make the eyeball,

no, to grok the need to see, to understand

affects of light, patterns & shapes ? How, in

nonbeing grasp the needs of things that be

or know what being is.   Let us say a beast

w/o hunger will not hunt nor eat for he moves

w reason but w/o purpose will stagnate

w time & space in stalemate, solid, inert,

unmoved, not by necessity, nor desire

inclined to that or this & yet they say

that this is what it is & all  there is,

to keep up rep & tenure, publish proper

papers undefiant, docile & conformd

confirmd to pridefully perpetuate

the status quo : we don't need no unsettled

apples or unstepforded uncomfortable

individuals, no peas outside the pod

to prod the sleepy sheepy massd unwashd

or be a pestilence to them on high

who look upon us from the welkin down

w blessings & beneficence or with

malevolence, black, raveneyed or falcon-

focusd beastly beakd & talond hunting

down & down & redly bloody bring me O

my bring me my arrows o

3.2014

Reynolds & Midway XXXVII.

                                                                                  For Bill Carpenter

To Niedecker page thirty-seven I saw

Will I & so it went but first I pressd six

say seven rows of twaddle 'til my needle

I took & unknitted what I'd lazily made,

@ which point then I thoght what will I,

or will I indeed, the choice as it always

was  was ours   Williams' Immortal Poems

uncoverd, dogeard, Duncan underneath

where late we sat & wonderd on designs

of floortiles, drywall, wainscot invisaged

bugeyes horns torsos tails & wings

w/ pressure on the ball of the foot

& weight of the body seated tilted gravid

birthing intellection silent quotidian

fanatical sawings of crickets visions gatherd

scattershot, willy-nilly as over a field

a flight of clumsy birds a tumble under

wrackd Shelleyan cloud or sprayd etcetera

thatchwork in the welkin, strings ejaculated

crosswise, could be poison, 'pending

on whom you trust and who has got the facks

I had at the knee Chinese in English, quatrains

of loss after loss a reconciliation

w cosmos not found in Western art a peace

w death, an order wrung from evolution

blind w/o purpose, perfect rectangled squared

calm & understanding, and so I thought

this is what I will: I will take to my feet

and ramble over the dry & empty hills

and you come too I sd to Reynolds, who

was taciturn and squinted in the sunlight

right hip loaded neath a striped duster

for he had seen Gary Cooper & his girl

a bandit with a torch, a field of corn

the fear in her eye set flame in his heart

& so remained inside while I went forth

wherever my foot struck earth a path, a way

not out but in, for we have sd in prayer

the fireworks of God & His majestic colors

splashd on the eyelids forcibly shut against

mt ranges snowpeakd, rolling oceans O

Lactantius, thou teller of One, not among

many, nay, there are no gods but God

not gods  gods do not exist  gods are men

there is only One God  and that is God

& no you will not remove Him nor can you

cast Him out Who made thee nor can you

remove Him, Whose Breath is thy breath &

thy body & being is Him & that pounding

heart's blood, life's blood, quick, hot w/ good

shot through & all throughout for all & for 1

Who is God, thy Father, thy Maker, thee

cherishd   precious   child   born   awakened,

live, for the Breath you breathe the  spirit  in 

spirited speed toward Him to adore Him.

2.26.2014

Reynolds & Midway XXXVI.

                                                                        for Kenneth (two of them)
                                                                     fromderinside & kennethamy

                                     

is the # of angels who can stand on the

head of a pin ° the number of angels 0

alienangels dancing dying on Jupiter's

methane hurricane that Richard Kenney 

utterd whilst I waterd the porcelain garden

gold golden rains how many angels/

angles right o square how many Romans

they go   you must use theee?   if it's not up

by sunrise       10 x around the palace

signs of consciousness in Pita's couplets

flickrd, misrememberd come ! Come let us

plant & build & till the earth & live 1 000

yrs this time that slippery silverfork we will

freely unheed & stand naked & w out shame

before our Father, you & I, for He loves

us much very & we will wend the wilderness

merry, man & woman proud & adore Him

Holy Holy Father Maker & mother ing

young & ancient tomorrow a million billion

yesterdays & Yes yes the music the evolution

greening blowing blooming crack & crunch

of cells atomic blood gears upon gears wheels

gears wheels motion moving Boyleing in blossom

in perpetuity & timeless pinpoint  now  non

motion unchange in chains chains wheels

gears seeds seeds seeds seeds wheels born

births GOD yes born & born & born again

cycles wheels time angels in Jupiter dying

dancing protons neutrons electrons whales arks &

archwhales chains wheels in deep sea space

absent cold hot void spiralling black points .s

mas .s & more to A point  Julian of Norwich

she the point pointed to in eloquence & Love

that all shall be well & all manner of things

shall be well in Christ Jesus Lord God Son Holy

Sun bright  bright Son   Light     The Light

and . Of GOD the sum of all       Almighty

One 1 & 0 Zero  zeroes        Omega ± Alpha

man made Maker made man & machine &

gears atoms blades stems seeds milk Mother

rest eternal black       void        void              v

° 'or' in Spanish

1.30.2014

Love (erasure poem; from William Shakespeare's "A Lover's Complaint")

From a reworded story

this double voice

fortified beauty

Time had not scythed

her levell'd eyes spheres

tied To the orbed earth

Her hair Proclaim'd pride

Hanging

she in a river weeping

applying wet to wet hands

gave the flood

silk and curious secrecy

Cried witness and damned in rage

    A reverend man

    a blusterer privileged by age

   'Father '

she says 'in me

The injury of many hath power

might spreading to myself

Love to myself

to gain grace'

That maiden made 

     him hang

    Small show of man

    his visage wavering

    without beauteous form

    falseness the sway he makes

quickly the verdict went

    his case

made not 

   his tongue did sleep

all passions in 

   his will

granted their own will

imagination in thought

labouring never touch'd

    his heart

woeful affections Reserved

Finding honour shielded

the foil

Of this jewel 

   his amorous

spoil

destined

forced

  put peril in her way

stop

rage    blood    fear

o Reason weep and cry

'This 

   man's foul

   in deceit vows defiling

   Thought and word

   bastards of his foul heart

I held

afraid

blood

Love     made not

true nor kind

shame

so much in me remains

how much reproach

my heart so much

Harm

heart wounded

Of grief

and effects of terror

but fighting

twisted weepingly

    With stone's nature hard

    Weak sickly wit made moan

    hot Of subdued desires

yield I myself

    to you

I their altar

    you

advance 

   Whose white command

   Hallow'd with sighs burning me

under you

   comes sanctified of holiest note

  Which kept cold distance and did thence remove

To spend

what is

    The thing we have not

    mastering

    Playing Playing unconstrained?'

She scars of battle

valiant her force

put out 

    Religion's eye

'How mighty you are O hear me

broken bosoms that to me belong

emptied all their fountains

I pour your ocean strong and you being strong

Must for your victory

compound love to your power

in grace

Believe when 

    they assail

All vows and consecrations giving bond 

space 

In thee    For thou art all

     wilt      inflame impediments

stand forth! Love's arms are peace

The aloe of all 

     force

Now hearts on mine depend

Feel it break with bleeding groan

    the battery

soft to that strong-bonded oath'

This said eyes were levell'd

Each cheek a river running

O how the stream gave grace

glowing

flame through water

    O father what hell

In the small tear

What rocky heart

What breast is not warm here?

    his passion

    resolved to white chastity

    Shook off he appears melting

    His poison a plenitude of

    swooning paleness

    he best

    To blush to turn white

Show nature kind

    When he most burn'd in heart

    He preach'd and praised

    concealed fiend

    cover'd

    fell.

1.16-17.14