Makeover - Muse's Advisory, Feb. 24 – Thalia

he takes his comb;

he takes soap and conditioner

and sets upon Yeshua's mop

of blood-encrusted hair

with that degree of courage

and in an hour the tresses

of the poor dead soul

are glossier than Nat King Cole's,

his cheeks are rouged,

his empty arteries and veins

transfused with firmer blood

than mortals lose,

an analgesic tincture dabbed

on all the open wounds—

slips one hand underneath

his barber's smock

and with a Gallic flourish

lifts Walt Whitman's looking glass—

fair costume,

not

Yeshua took one gaze and knew

he now had less in common

with un homme than with un dieu.

mail order king - muse's advisory, feb. 25 – clio:
the british captain edmund lyons, 
knight of the order of st. louis and 
grand cross of the order of the redeemer and
grand cross of the order of the mejidie and
grand cross of the legion of honor and
grand cross of the military order sailed 
the 46-gun 5th-rate bombay-built seringapatam-class 
druid-subclass frigate hms madagascar
into breezy nafplion
and delivered the young otto friedrich ludwig of bavaria
whom the european powers had named king of greece
by divine right via
byzantine emperor alexios I komnenos & irene doukaina's
daughter theodora komnene angelina & konstantinos angelos's
son andronikos dukas angelos & euphrosyne kastamonitissa's
son emperor alexios III angelos & euphrosyne doukaina kamaterina's
daughter anna angelina & emperor theodore I lascaris of nicaea's
daughter maria lascarina & king béla IV of hungary
son stephen V of hungary & elisabeth of cumania's 
daughter maria arpad of hungary & king charles the lame of naples's
daughter eleanor of anjou & frederick III of sicily's
daughter elizabetta of sicily & duke stephen II of bavaria-munich's
son duke john II of bavaria & katharina of görz
(...a few lost centuries during the tourkokratia...)



and now the german princeling queerly hellenized his name, 
raised up the cross of christ
and told the greeks, in what was greek to them,
that everything henceforth würde in Ordnung sein.

Barbarian - Muse's Advisory, Feb. 26 – Miriam:
Diyha the Berber

who drove Hasan from Ifriqiya

was a mother. Mixcoatl's
mother fed Xiuhnel her menstrual blood,

then slit his chest. Giving birth in battle,

Phùng Thị Chính
bore both her newborn and sword

as she slaughtered the Han.

Wasn't Zeus only saved from his father by Rhea?

From Typhon, by sinew-thieving Hermes?
I didn't get this far giving sacred cows belief.

If I fail, I fail,

of either boot, a cone-snail stinger,

a vial of botulism

milked

the piping of my veil,

a sliver of shinbone

up my sleeve.

but know something

about dispensing sorrows too.
Yeshua preaches

turn the other cheek.

Zeus is about

to learn the nether side of meek.

armed to the teeth, along the infamous beach

where Zeus once swam ashore from Tyre,

Europa in his grasp, to show his human face

and most animalistic behavior?—

Yeshua, fresh from Hephaistos's salon

and attempting to get a little color

before his Syrian debut as Christ the Savior.

going looking like that?” she demands.

full name is Sophronius Eusebius Hieronymus.”

his punishment for being over-fond of Cicero—

to make him an example. He'll tell everyone.

The glamor, actually, is for my second stop,

but you can't carry luggage on an apparition."
“A girl?”
“A nun, Ma. I'll be sitting for a portrait

in a little town called Plock, in central Poland.”

what to paint. It's called 'Mercy Divine.' Check it out.”

from the first day you arrived, right to the day you died.

Now here you're sunning on a Cretan beach, all gussied

like an Aztec prince; what could you say to make me mad?”

hair and taxidermy. Ma, you can't imagine

what a wreck you look like after you've been dead a while!

Phaistos fixed all that, and Dad booked the appearances.

Thanks to the two of them, it's like I'm born again.”

Appearing Soon II - Muse's Advisory, Feb. 28 – Melpomene:
“Dad's got it all worked out,” Yeshua says.

“He's backing me the whole nine yards.

He has no interest in Olympos anymore.

If I just play my cards right, Greek gods will be artifacts

and all of Europe Christian soon.

He says the Turn-the-other-cheek

and Love-thy-neighbor have their merits

but to also keep the old stuff—

brimstone, you know. Pragmatism

wins out in the end. If not, you're just

another shrill sound in a noisy desert.”
“Yeshua, he's co-opting you!” cries Miriam.
'”Ma! Let it go!

I know he hurt you pretty bad.

I understand. But he can be a cool guy, too.

He put the sunshine back into my eyes.”

Society is global now, Zeus says—”

under a block of ice, a water jug and syrup jar

and the boy grins appreciatively.

I have the human touch.”

Now he knows everything, is that it?”

I forgive you.

That's me, you know:

Mr. Forgiveness.”

with all you've said.

You know I don't see

eye to eye with Zeus.

But it's your second life,

not mine—so good success

when you appear in Syria.”
“Thanks, Ma. My chance

to reach the world.”

I too have things to do.

I'm here to murder Zeus.”
“Don't expect a sitting duck.

He knows what you've been thinking

and he's armed to the teeth—

Hephaistos an amazing smith.”

If I'm committed to redeem mankind,

I can't get hung up

on the squabbles of

the family I left behind.”

Fatherly - Muse's Advisory, March 2 – Melpomene:
“Fuck!” squawks Saint Paul.
“I know,” Zeus says.

“I smell her coming too.

You'd better get below, Hephaistos.

I'm about to have my hands full—

can't be worried about you

and little Tarsus here.

Keep him downstairs

until the smoke clears.”

Zeus continues, “only me.

You and I are not too chummy

but at least

we look each other in the eye

before we spit in it.

We know the beast.”
“Pa, don't take this personal

and blow your top.

I'm happy to have helped you

prep Yeshua for appearances

in Syria and Poland.

If you wanted to retire, though,

why didn't you ask me?”
“Be careful who you're jealous of

and never think to know the mind

of kings, Hephaestos.

Your half-brother's just a pawn

dressed up in bishop's robes.

It's you I love.

It's you whom I keep close to me.”
“Fuck!” squawks Saint Paul.
“He's warning you!” laughs Zeus.

“Don't trust the wily psychopath—

The bird has got a point.

It's not that I'm not fond

of Miriam and Hera, you,

Yeshua, my nine Muses,

and the rest.

In my own way, I am.

It's just that every flock

can only have one ram

and if I want it to be me

I have to make sure no one else

starts strutting like the new

cock-o'-the-roost.

Yeshua thinks that love is free.

That only makes it cheap.

The thing that hooks them all

is being hard to read

and playing hard to get.”

if you want to understand

what fouls your pants:

your own lust for the upper hand.”

His eyes sprout tears

and off he runs without the bird.

Bitter Ends - Muse's Advisory, March 3 – Calliope:
Birth's soilure scoured from his scalp,

Zeus borne by nymphs toward Knossos

On the hot plain of Kydonia; his umbilicus

Dropped off and there arose out of his navel

The first blade he'd learn to battle with:

Keen, double-edged, a labrys floated up.
“Miriam,” Zeus said,

“the Fates have cut short

our relationship.

One of us dies today,

and at the other's hand.

There is no better way

to go than to be slain

by somebody else

at the top of their game.”
“Intending to kill you I came,

Zeus, to prevent your war

on nascent Christianity.

But on my way,

I came across Yeshua

on the beach

and find you've done more

damage than I knew.

Pick up your twin-axe

and your thunderbolt,

whatever else

lurks in your arsenal.

Part of our fight

was philosophical:

now all of it is personal.”
Without awaiting his reply

she quickly bent,

then rushed at him

and drove one of her daggers

into each of Zeus's eyes.
His howls reverberated

through the cave.

Hephaistos downstairs

clapped his hands

over his ears

and prayed for his own mother

Hera

to appear and intervene.

he'd only wanted somebody

to pound some sense

into the old shit's head.

shrieked Miriam.

“How many others

have you blinded

with a lightning flash

or with dishonest words?

Now feel about your feet

and try to find

something to wield

before you're killed!”

closed two hands on

the handle of his axe

and flicked it powerfully

in the direction

of his adversary's voice.

She nimbly stepped aside:

the labrys flew

and clove the crested cockatoo

Zeus cherished so.

And then she slipped

the cone-snail prick

from underneath

her head-kerchief

and fixed it in

the bloody bully's thigh.

was strangled in his throat

as alpha, delta, kappa,

mu, omega conotoxins

quickly shut his

cricoid muscle down.

She shrieked again,

“How does it feel!

How many others

have you throttled

in your arrogant insistence

that you always have

the final word?”
Zeus tried to raise

his spurting eyes; he

tried to lift his arm;

he tried to force

an oath up from

his heart; in vain.

All he could manage

without sight or

the cooperation of

his brawn was one

emission from his hair:

a snaking thread

of bald electric light

that sniffed the air

for Miriam's exultant

radiation and then

zeroed straight in on

the tiny botulism vial

still secreted

underneath her veil.

right hand dove

into the reliquary of

her left sleeve for

the shinbone sliver

from the potent

anti-pagan John;

and as she struck

it into Zeus's chest,

the botulism paralyzed

the rest of her;
the cave fell silent.

Taste of Honey - Muse's Advisory, March 4 – Melpomene:
Hephaistos peeked out

of the narrow shaft

that led between

the mountain underworld

and where new gods

were born

were not his father's

blood-encrusted eyes

or muscles petrified

to polished stone
nor woman

frozen in a glare

so venomous

it made the cave

seem twice

as tenebrous

crumpled gory on the cave's cold floor

pinned against the riven wall

by one of the mighty labrys's

twin blades.

immediately wondered

what could possibly be done

to bring a creature freshly

sundered back to life
and only then he turned attention

to his father

and his father's late and latest wife.
He smiled, grim.

He was so glad

his mother Hera hadn't come.

He was the man

in charge now
and if anyone

was going to save the day

But the truth?

You want the truth?
I simply thought I was too good for Nazareth.
I saw your father as my ticket out

and broke my parents' hearts

to serve my own swelled head.
Whatever's special in Yeshua

comes from Zeus, not me.

Who else would even try

to do what you did with that cockatoo?
Don't lose your confidence.
You got the bird to perch and squawk

as good as new,

like I used to do

when I was just a girl
and I just know you'll also

figure something out for Zeus.

but thanks to you, I'm praying

now for his re-animation.
Shut up yourself, white bird!
I never cared much for St. Paul—

I didn't think Zeus ever needed props—

he has changed his tune and doubled his vocabulary.

of what your father must have felt for him.

I'm going to try and coax him onto it,

give him a smooch

and teach him to say Mom.
Your father's eyes? You may be right.

That may be too much of a stretch, even for you.

Those two white

marble balls might have to do.

But honestly, he didn't use them much:

he lived by oratory.

Concentrate your efforts on the mouth.

His eyes would always get him into trouble

and his tongue would always get him out.
Shut up, I said!
Hephaistos—what you did with my Yeshua

was extraordinary.

I just love the way

you kept the wounds, accentuated them;

adore the way you got those rays of light

to pour forth like his breast was heaven!

something similar with me?

by all means! I'm just saying.

It seemed obsessional

to spend more than a minute at the mirror.

I always thought the natural look was best.

I didn't know what a professional could do!
His skin? It has a lifelike shine.

Looks like that lovely pinkish-olive marble

they'll be quarrying in Tennessee before too long.

You've seen those pompous ads

that he doesn't really have to move.

That thing he did—

the lightning from the hair—with me?

He did that from an attitude of total immobility.
Are those tears in your eyes?

Hephaistos, heaven knows you've tried!

He wasn't anybody's puppet while alive.

We can't expect him to be any more responsive

now he's died.

The botulism and the conotoxins

maybe haven't finished wearing off.

Who knows, with his metabolism?

Take a break.

He was the kind of man

nobody pressured into anything

regardless of how much

he may have wanted it himself—

was always too damn proud.

or better than he ever has.

He still has mystery, pizzaz,

that great Zeus magnetism.

Now the final step is up to him.

The id provides the jism, no?

it's getting on my nerves again.

Could you make one more small adjustment to its brain?

I know it's from Sumatra

but just maybe could you program it

to do some Streisand or Sinatra?

I've heard you croon,

but when that axe came

hurtling toward me,

I couldn't have

been any more off-guard:

it split me neck to butt.

says thank my lucky stars

my head stayed whole,

but that's a fucked up way

of thinking, isn't it?

Such 'luck' first blessed me

on the day

Mount Gamalama blew

my world to hell,

for you

a beak, two feet,

a crumpled origami

of ash-dusted plumes;

now, this.
Let's cut the 'lucky star' shit—

call me a survivor.

Phaistos says I lost a lot

of blood—well, all of it—

and I won't ever be the same.

The stuff he filled me back up with

he drained from twenty

fellow troglodytes he guessed

were more or less compatible:

gray wrens.
“Even when the wounds knit,

don't expect to fly,” he says.

“Expect some nightmares, flashbacks,

PTS, and sexual dysfunction,

your crest chronically deflated.

But the good news is—”

oh, how he cracks

his own ass up!—

“who'll ever want to fuck you?”
But all I care about is you,

your empty eyes and waxen,

The blue-robed witch is right:

the boy can only do so much.

It my turn now to figure out

This is what it boils down to:

an embittered bird, a flinty,

dead-faced witch,

a father who can't do a thing

beyond an occasional twitch,

a gay half-brother somewhere

up in the Carpathians,

a mother totally obsessed with

spite over her brother-husband's

“Leave them behind, they'll drag you down.”

I imagine that's what Zeus thought

when he saw my tiny, deformed foot—

“Get rid of him before emotion roots.”
The mortals go to war,

lose,

then rush to war again.

And I don't blame them.

The Jilted's Jeer - Muse's Advisory, March 8 – Hera:
Phaistos, I'm not a fan

nor knowing about birds

but that dilapidated bag of feathers

over there

looks like he needs some air

or desperately to drop a poop.

I'm going to turn your hard tits

to the wall.

I'd like a couple minutes

with the Marble Man alone.

I made the chicken stew;

let me clean up the coop.
Great Zeus,

whuh happened?

did some widdle Jewiss wady

wipe the cave floor wif your ass?

Cat got your tongue?

You don't think give-and-take

is quite as much fun

as you used to, hon?

You're mustering

some feeble little shock

to shoot at me?

How utterly pathetic.

I'll tell our boy on my way out

that you might afterall

be of some use

in case the widdle birdie

needs a diuretic.

My new man's

young, hotheaded, strong

as you once were—

but has a bit more sense.

He understands

my vengeance is lifelong

and retribution immense.

you in a semi-regal stance.

Schoolkids will think you

wild and fierce,

someone who'd never wear a suit—

a child at heart.

Without you waving them about

as if the sky was going to fall,

your dick and balls

look cute,

a little blue,

and very small.

with your clownishly inflated

donkey-dick

to notice all the noble

Greeks and Romans

are enstatuated

with much smaller pricks?

All those sculptors didn't

just run short of stone.

They thumbed their noses

at you so-called studs

with penises too thick

to properly get pussy-sucked

or blown.

their pubic hair and muscles thick.

Nor are they pantywaists too shy

to show the world their prick.

Stop to think about it,

only one real explanation sticks:

celebration of the well-hung guy

is just attempted compensation

by you brainless hicks.
Go root for nuts beneath red oaks,

go ooh and aah at other oafs with dicks

as generous as their minds are small:

there's nothing for you here.

The Minister of Classical Antiquities

arrives tomorrow with her cart—

and always brings her ruler.

Don't try to fool her

into thinking it's a baseball bat.

She fell for that old trick

when she was blooming and naïve

one ice-pack

and The Skillful Rabbit's

School of Climaxes

ago.

the one you're dissing?

His sugar found its mark

when your father's

was missing.
Read Homer and Hesiod:

Zeus wasn't man enough

to stay with me,

his puerility

not anatomical but mental.

He courted oohs and aahs

from girls

who misread wit as depth

and flattery

for gifts he actually bestowed.
Psychological manipulation

was his favorite tool

of masturbation.

No woman with an ego

of her own is going to be

happy as the dildo of a fool.

I could've been a better brother;

failing that, a better lover;

failing that, a better god

to those whose faith

gave me another chance

to till success.

No opportunity remains

to statuary capable

of whispering complaints

to other people's brains,

no more than that.

No god is strong enough

to overthrow the air—

for what we don't deserve

is goatsbeard fluff,

and every ill we plant

will wind up in our pot.
Too late for me to grin,

but I will bear my fate

as stoically as anybody can

who brings disaster

on himself.

A bear's assault?—

I never flinch.

A storm at sea?—

don't give an inch.

A stronger warrior's blade?—

the very reason

fortitude was made!

But blind stupidity?

I want to weep.

a scant three days ago—

leaking from your mind!

You're better than regret!

move your arms or legs

curse or say hello

or smell a breeze

or hold a hand

you used to do

into your youthful soul?

the constant coat of grit

upon your teeth
or the sensation

that you have to crap

but lack a hole to let it out?
Does any of that matter?
Do gods need faculties

of sight, touch, taste or smell?

you haven't heard before?

impassive, immaterial, free?

The you

I miss him too,

but he,

like most of us,

I see this, Zeus,

more as a stimulus

to underplay

the deity who

rules from faraway

for one who does

what gods do

surreptitiously.”
“Bird, I appreciate

the optimism but

you're talking through

your pitiably flat

white hat!

What can I do?—

telepathy with you

is the extent of it.

Past that,

I'm a just another statue

to afford you footing

while you shit.

All things must end:

I'm more loath

to wane than quit.”

After you pulled me tattered

from the lava ash

and I refused

to look you in the eye

do you remember

what you said?

Where's your gumption, burung?

Everyone else is dead.

The same applies right now.

Do you think Phaistos has it in him

to pick up where you left off?

Yeshua? Or his mother?

Hera?

The universe is cyclical:

expands,

contracts back in upon itself,

and then expands again

with more force than before.

You may not have the reach

you did,

polestar, birr, and emperor.

Just look at Miriam's eye:

it says, Be strong.

You two have made it—

what, 2000 years so far?

No way she's going to let

you pull the plug.

Brain-Storm - Muse's Advisory, March 14 – Yeshua:
“I'm back!” I call,

and run into an empty cave,

a bloodied wall.
“Downstairs!” I hear Mom yell.

I find her straining cooking oil

while Hephaistos dabs

and doodles at a statue of Dad,

and the bird sits on a lampstand

looking stricken

and sick

as if hit on the head

by a brick.
My appearances went well—

not Oscar-caliber like hers,

but hardly duds.

The notices all praised

my posture, radiance and gravity.

They loved my dress,

and definitely want me back.

Dad's tickled, I can tell.

Although he's stone and blind,

he's proud and says so

without saying it out-loud.

It's like I read his mind.

suspicious and unmoved,

too pained to smile, she says,

“This musht, boys, is delicious.

Do you know

it was your father's favorite?”

He won't return my greeting.

the face he shows the human race

and I see why:

Half-Brother is ugly as sin.

just careen out of his mouth.”

Your father swore he was intelligent.”

and Phaistos turns around to watch.

He tricked us all, often as not.”

Where's the cheesecloth

to cover the fish?”
“Pourquoi la soudaine volte-face, maman?

Last week, you hated the old goat!

First you assault him, then defend him?”
“He isn't dead,” Hephaistos pleads.

“Look at the lifelike wrists—”

"He'll live forever, just as long

as we can shield him from the acid rain.”
“Fuck!” squawks the cockatoo.
“Don't you boys see?” Mom says.

“He's still at work with his old magic!

Don't sell him short, Yeshua.

He's still all up inside your head.”

“Infinity! Beyond.”

“Now where is that all coming from?”

“The Trinity.”

He did you a favor stripping the whole disgusting thing away.”

holding the glistening painting to the candlelight.

says Yeshua.

the way it shapes my face!” coos Miriam.

“You've all done well. Three is the magic number,

you were right, Hephaistos! And a stroke of genius,

setting it dead in the heart of the night!

Now before we put this out there on the market,

are we all pulling the same oar? Is everyone content?

I don't want what happened both to Caesar

and Octavian's triumvirates to happen here, again.”

this woman and these sons of yours. Don't paint

The pecking order always is contentious:

popinjays like young Yeshua aren't conscientious

about tolerating others in the limelight.

He'll try to nudge you out; his mother out;

he'll never give Yusef the time of day.

He'll make me out to be an afterthought.

The only ace I hold is to control which apparitions

get my demiurgic imprimatur and which not.

Put me in charge of policy and doctrine, Pak.”
“Zeus,” Miriam prays. “I think we got it right—

one team again, all on the winning side.

Oh, I can't wait to see Muhammad's face

when he finds out he's been betrayed!”

“as long as I get all the work this thing is bound to generate!

Believers will need lifesize icons they can venerate.

Add on: novena cards and rosaries, Miraculous Medals,

missals, hymnals, scapulas, cute little Hummels for their

3-D crèches, relic cases...Oh, I have 101 ideas!”

Let the world rejoice: Zeus, Primate of the Pantheon,

the Pagan Patriarch, is dead! Long live the real god, Deus!

Down with Allah! Down with anybody daring to gainsay us!”

light from his palms

on one side

a disheveled dove

perched on an ass's head
the new father gazes down

upon the babe

and basks in his success.
above the humble shed

hovers a randy spook

with cock erect,
but he cannot get in,
the doorway barricaded

by three jinns

in purple turbans
and three shepherds

huddled glowering

in hoods
armed to the teeth

with sledge hammers

and skins of lemon juice.
the woman had been

torture to seduce.

to pry her loose

she was suffering

the arch-seducer zeus.

he got her in his bed,

now his,
which makes him feel

ever so slightly like a god.

Avowals - Muse's Advisory, March 17 – Clio:
“Come ouuut!” hollers Khalid,

“in the name of Allaaah!

and his Prophet Muhaaammad!

If you do not surreeender!

you will be kiiilled!”
Fresh from victory in Persia,

the Prince of Islam stands

at the forefront of his troops

in the middle of the dump

of gnawed salami heels,

cheese rinds and olive pits,

and bellows up at the cave

first in Arabic, then Greek.

The echoes of his demands

drain into the copper sands

that stretch for miles around.
“I'll count to teeen!” he cries.

“Wahiiid! Ithnaaan! Thalathaaa!

Arba'aaa! Khamsaaa! Sittaaa!

Sab'aaa! Thamaniyaaa! Tis'aaa!

He pauses, listens, then resumes.

“Énaaa! Dýooo! Tríaaa! Tésseraaa!

Pénteee! Éxiii! Eptáaa! Októoo!

“Do not attaaack!

You've not thought throoough!

what you're about to dooo!

Your shouts strikes this rooock!

bending it ever so sliiightly!

and then echoing baaack!

They strike my fleeesh!

bending it ever so sliiightly!

as they pass throoough me!

An iota enters my eeear!

beats on my eardruuum!

and beats your thoooughts!

onto my braiiiin!

If you slay me you'll fiiind!

nothing inside my heeead!

except warm meeeat!

to keep the vultures feeed!”

still shrieking partly in Greek,

partly in Arabic, partly in Latin,

partly in some other tongue.

My God calls me Jerooome!

Why do you threateeen?

Bahira's former hooome?

His heresies are odiouuus!

but Jesus teaches uuus!

to practice charityyy!

not counting to threeee!

and launching attaaacks!”
“Jesus was riiight!”

Khalid shouts back.

“But he is deeead!

The being you call Deuuus!

is a deceptiooon!

The only God is Allaaah!”

Can't we sit dooown!

and dispute over wiiine?

You must be dryyy!

Come up and shaaare!

the drop that's miiine!”

Where are his scrooolls?

Where's his Greek frieeend?

who used to drink with hiiim?”

Long deeead!

I haven't seen nor heeeard!

from them in yeeears!

Forgive meee!

I'm not doing well myseeelf!”

Khalid shouts back.

“But we are coming uuup!

to search the caaave!

We beg you to submiiit!

and spare your liiife!”

But come and seeee!

blind crickets eating maaanna!

from the tomb baaats!”

and twenty riders slip down

from their mounts

and clamber up the rock.

Jerome totters forward

to greet them with a kiss

but finds no other cheek.

Proposal - Muse's Advisory, March 18 – Zeus Statue to Miriam:
    No hard feelings.

Our war rocked!

just remembering it.

if you don't stand up

you're not.

but she always fell short.

You want in?

He never had a dick or eyes to lose,

He's incorporeal—up in the sky—

from foolish girl who fell for the wrong guy

Play it all to the hilt—

the greater your adherents' guilt.

to maintain the upper hand

some new way to make them tremble.

is better than an empty thimble.

and flaxen-haired in Leyden,

he had a fantasy of being

Christ Preaching

(c. 1643-49, etching,

drypoint and burin

on cream-colored

Japanese wove paper)

and living in the Frick.

But how self-indulgent

was that? Hadn't Father

frequently scoffed

at Hoogstraten's

(c. 1645-50, pen

and brown ink

with brown wash

and additions of red

and black chalk

and four framing lines

in pen and brown ink)?

simpler suited him more.

(1658, oil on canvas)

was enough of a dream

on which to build, as

Father taught him,

brick by brick,

an image of himself

that wouldn't crack

from the weight of its

own pomposity.

“Why self-portrait?”

his future wife would ask,

and his reply was,

“Who else am I fit

to take to task?”

Then, she eyed him

more appraisingly,

saw exactly whom

she'd be getting,

and said yes.

Scusa, madonna,

So forgive me if I'm meditative,

   a tranquil presence

But my experience

on Gamalama's slope,

Stick to what you know:

on my one good zygodactyl

back to Indonesia.

Oooooooh!

Is that furtive tension

I feel rising in my belly

early warning

of your death-ray swelling?
It burst the vial

sconced in Miriam's veil—
and now mine's bulging too!
Oh, Zeus! The things that you can do!
If only you could conjure me
a cockatooess now!

Who ever told you 

the game we took

and boil morning coffee
in a tin pot?

   I was first to fly

to pilot solo

south from L.A.

to Newark

and there's still
a lot I want to do
and be

after we chase 

No older wood

nor older friend nor enemy
than spearhead made of yew
unearthed from half a million years ago.

No denser shade than

where the Eburones' hero Catuvolcus
took his leave
instead of bowing low to Rome.

No sweeter fruit in England,

custard luring thrush and waxwing
to be messengers of bitter seed

its venom rich enough drop a horse

but tit and hawfinch both withstand.

        What green more poisonous

than love of native land!—

a muscle trembling, a staggered gait,

convulsion, labored breath,
a quailing heart, then mercifully death?

My longbow!

Bolingbroke and Longshanks
summoned staves from all the world
for armorers to shave—or Wordsworth

                   ...ere they marched

         To Scotland's heaths; or those that crossed the sea
         And drew their sounding bows at Azincour,
         Perhaps at earlier Crecy, or Poictiers...

        No laburnum, ash nor hazel
furnished Beowulf his shield;

nor shielded Tennyson's beloved

cradling his death-struck head;

nor lent vile Voldemort his wand.

Do pyres of black smoke
and young Fifers' Pictish cries
drift southward on the wind
that gales from Dardanos?

God! Zeus! how can the ears

you laid aside on Crete
wherever buried, fail to hear

this frothing lust of veins

to fly immediately north 
and bathe in gore?

     I curse this exile thrice!—

once, failed to land
our passenger in France
but waylaid in the fog
by hand of God
or flaw of steel;

once, lost Lavonne

and hope of wedding night

her wheaten face 

reconjured by the waif
from Kansas left here too
who bakes my bread;

and now, too far in time

and place and too perplexed
to charge into the fight

yet poisoned by a patriotic

blood continuing as if 
from a previous life.

The Mid-Life Blues - Muse's Advisory, March 26 – Glenn Miller:

I have nothing but good

to say of my “band” of companions:

no one wants to be here

but we do our best
to keep each other's spirits up.

I don't pretend to know

what disappointing God
or faulty Wheel of Life
installed us here

rustic Ephesians

after four decades spent 
in recent lands and times

but if we get our hands on It or Him

we'll separate limb from limb

re-grease the moving parts

and hope for better results.

We're Christians!

This is not supposed to happen.
Even if we were Hindus
this is not supposed to happen.

I've half a mind

to climb back down this hill
and try to swim
to someplace civilized, at least—

what century, who cares?

Who can't use a trombonist?

What stays me—stays us—

is the hope that the Deus
who parked us here will
put us back inside our planes

if we stay put

and don't make any fuss.

Amelia and I are both

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