While light pierces
the triangle of Thoth,
his writing, his word
maintains the wobbling universe.
Smooth as a butter-pat,
Butterscoop Brass,
imperial knocker
on the front door
enjoys silentium;
while in the desolate sponge
soap creeps mud-red,
Mildred, the housekeeper,
dozes in the pantry;
from her kitchen window
the church steeple
steep, abrupt,
as the finger of God.
Clearly bias,
shrieks the devil;
clear and cold as ice,
his teeth, organ pipes
trismegistus magnified,
metallic as linotype,
glitter in a rictus.
Not for this,
Prince of Darkness,
I climbed undismayed
the drainpipes of hell,
not for this wicked bias
I assumed all lies
beneath heaven’s ramparts,
breached, like a breaking wave,
the innocent earth,
to find, to find,
a race already
more wicked than kind.
Sooty traveler,
cloven-footed,
I knock on the door;
clang clang
the brass eagle bangs,
but no one’s home.
Goat-footed ganger,
I’m out in the cold.
From the bottomless pit,
preserve me, Jesus,
the sun’s a pleasant thing,
forgive me for trying,
for climbing to the light,
to a dominion, a throne,
older than Stonehenge stones,
thrown up by the will of God
among thieves and kings
in the brutal human sea.
Forgive Our Father, too,
walking to and fro,
his robe billowing, rolling,
touching us all,
but dreary he seems
sometimes seems
so far away.
Dreary he is, Our Father,
ruling over deceitful lands,
barbarous hands try
to strip his palace, his temple bare,
scorning the sinful
stricken ground they stand on.
Our Father
who moves the sun,
the moon, the stars;
his light strikes
the heart of the senses,
leaves his words
ringing down bright and
dark horizons,
among the bogus flowers,
the weeds I plant
to spoil his seed.
A fallen angel,
I fight the hard fight,
the evil corrupting fight,
but no use, all waste;
Butterscoop Brass,
lost in light,
king of kings,
gigantic eagle
on the world hinge,
spreads his transcending wings,
enjoys his transcendent power,
the millennium glory,
cardinal of creation,
silent as space.
