a spy was trampled at the jasper gate
the eastern garrison has run out of rice
one hears of a decree to round up and
butcher young maidens for the soldiers’ stew
i give it little faith although the neighbor’s
youngest’s been missing two nights in a row

the new servant took off was gone till midnight
came back without his cap reeking of wine
the jurchen are within the walls he says
and at the plaza by the pearl shrine blood
was ankle-deep glistening like a black mirror
he’s been too insolent of late the steward
must be requested to apply the rod
those jurchen are just a ruse for their ilk

a visit from the venerable yi
his brittle sheets of tang calligraphy
obtained from a bookseller for a trifle
trifle indeed but who would want to hurt
a friend i had them fetch some wine and plums
the last of the old stock but it was worth it
never an evening was so full of mirth
on his way back the venerable yi
was torn out of his litter thrushed to death
with canes those jurchen nothing but a ruse

a conflagration this time in the west
the guards will have their work cut out for them
curse the old gown all matted and it’s cold
should have dispatched them to stock up on brushwood
but there’s no one to send and none for sale
how splendid is the moon in the black velvet
of the night sky in the black silk of smoke

looks like the fire is aiming for the palace
from where the stables should be and the harem
i haven’t cleaned my brush the ink is dry
the emperor may be godlike but he feels
the fear we know he is afraid for us
but we alas have hardly any words
left to console him

what happens is of course a traveling band
hailing from some mesoamerican
republic bursts into the car at roosevelt
with a sad but powerful song of which the lyrics
are greek to me because it is in spanish
followed by an amazing trick or two
performed by a self-taught magician who
insists that i must hold a piece of twine
which i obediently grasp attempting not
to move my eyes away from my sony reader
and never see what the twine was about

there’s more before we ever cross the east river
a roving man of cloth with a tumultuous
voice treats us to a homily
turns out we all should give away our worldly
possessions and abstain from storing treasures
on earth but rather store them up in heaven
along the preacher’s arm a verdict runs
tattooed in a fossil script which reads not guilty

i look around who are you my coerced
playmates sad lot unhappy multitudes
why are you thrown into this moveable feast
squeezed like sardines into the planet’s bowels
i may consult the sony reader which
is my sole current source of wisdom but
i doubt it will enlighten me as to
what it was she consumed from her brown bag
as to the carrot juice the doubts are groundless

if found the applicant is best advised
to remain as she was since her alleged
employer is completely out of funds
nor feels he’s welcome to intrude upon
such a perfect mode of being if attained
content to be aware of it this remaining
the only valid point of the contract bid

now for the small print the submitting side
of this disjointed drivel henceforth called
the party of the first part and ignored
holds no responsibility whether legal
or moral for the state of things which makes
it lose its wits and brashly raise the stakes
going for broke behaving like an ass
seeing the world but darkly through the glass

small details but sometimes they change a lot
what if vole were the opposite of love
but then it cannot be such a cute critter
so inoffensive-looking should contain
at least one r to sound sufficiently nasty

but how it is with them is hard to guess
granted with the japanese does not apply
still they have лов and вол but these mislead
or have i suddenly switched the frame of reference
hatred is at its best when unrequited

should be an answer to a simple question
like yes or no no matter how you spell
and no one cares which way their r’s are facing
vole is a manner of existence love
its sole imperative and yes of course

the loop which is the loom weaves up a storm
of tortured steel within whose distant mind
we coexist as hazard brings together
loose strands of disparate time which sometimes are
spliced by the el-train when it hits a stitch
sparks showering down and the west i force
myself to face is where they keep the wind
when not in use the head is where the brain
billows and flaps a platypus tree in bloom

the lady of the lake is gone her mirror
sporting a crack is now the sky itself
from where the miniature parachutes keep flowing
with a tiny platypus attached to each
like some toy mascot of an alien airline

and yet one feels that in the meaning lost
one senses scars of the past efforts to
impart the obstinate truth whose relevance fades
for the receiving party as it grows
for the sad imparter launching aimless missiles
towards the hollow aluminum sky of march

in spring when all our senses act acute
all meanings turn unutterable but still
nature says its own rosary whose beads
are elms squirrels brooks chipmunks birds did i
say birds someone sure did the magic jackdaw
says never then takes pause and asks for more

ii
you have picked it at random simply by counting
seven exits from the last stop unwilling to tell
one hicksville from another you were looking
for a place to lay down your burden and this one
happens to have a red courthouse tower seen from afar
with a clock whose frozen hands
almost touch midnight without specifying
a day or a year must be the late seventies
judging by a decaying steel mill the very
fish skeleton of the existence as such

iii
speaking of which remember hitting a fishmarket
some sixty miles ago where in front of your eyes
the deft piscator gilling a black bass produced
a brass ring from within the creature’s bowels
never having thrown it in the lake you could not
have been the addressee or perhaps the fisherman
was a classics dropout armed with an aged joke
he may be using it as a shibboleth to sort out
the locals from the commuters with a harvard diploma
to better avail himself of their monetary situation

iv
come to think of it none of those locals seems
to be in a hurry to greet the new settler
except for the presumed jarrers of the stained glass
the locals are paramount to the entire scenario
you will secretly award each one with a name
of somebody once loved or simply met elsewhere
it has been seven exits but the true one is found
as to the doctor the matter can wait
one will turn up eventually but the verdict
is immutable still the life was a burst of joy

v
here under the unresponsive sky
on their soil saturated with rust you will settle
in a rented hovel with a porch facing the lake
not necessarily placid it owes you nothing
like the sky let it be simply a space of water
and the clock on the tower at the edge of time
will mutely chime while the natives shuttle
to and fro their secret names unknown to any
smiling you will sit on the porch with a dead laptop
and type blindly lifewasaburstofjoylifewas

the month being august the odds are higher
though not by much and he could have
used the chance at the indian casino
of which he fell short only a few miles
fate is a chain of wasted improbabilities
and the night is a storm cloud sowing stars
on the luckless and lucky alike

he is sullenly certain of making it into
the county sheet or becoming a butt
of jibes at the water cooler
come to think of it cooler it certainly gets
the star storm thickens he is ringing harder
against the sky excised by the waning summer
what a rare and preposterous way out
it is wyoming if you know what i mean

does it make a difference in the end lightning
or lottery to the chosen and the blessed
whom the gods apprehended awakened for once
from their eternal inanity
stars flowing like snow up to his icy knees
perhaps not even in wyoming anymore

ii
mornings penelope shuttles majestically
between the living room and the pantry
twenty years is a twinkle for a heavenly body
whose orbit was clasped by the cosmic cooper
and being a wife becomes her even though
he still wonders what was the nose job for
the desk chair keeps suggesting alien shapes
but the stars in the window have not changed
since he drove them home from the journey
he likes the stars well enough but he misses the sea

iii
they have no kings now and he has been
pensioned off by the municipal council
he could have tried his hand at a service station
but the models are all new jammed with wires
and he yearns for his little statelet he used
to criss-cross each morning smiling benevolently
but the sea has receded his subjects are dispersed
the dead fish whisper in the foam of his dream
and the statues hum their distant sea shanties
cut into shreds by the wind in the pillars of air

iv
this evening is probably his now-or-never chance
what with his son not back yet from the rehab
his wife off to her weekly quilting bee whatever
ever so furtively he turns the ignition
launching his tin ship onto the waves of dusk
is this a flight or perhaps his last assault
something to be decided later for now
he reads the remaining stars not yet mowed down
by autumn from ithaca all the way to albany
and on to troy aiming at the maine coastline

v
he will never come back now no such thing
as back because the sea retraces its retreat
the lobster season is over and on the beach
a solitary someone lights up the smoke mixes
with the mist while the smoker merges
with the observer let the rancorous god rage
at the trespasser who is the king again
of infinite space and his own lone subject
braving the foaming jaws of the last element
gone and never come back never come