A
   Wept into the sea. Accused of wrath
by ancient mouths countless times—which is true
but not honest. Ached &
ran naked through the camp at night the moonlight
glows on the skin as armor glows.
So swift no man could see me I ran like some god’s
holy stag, a blur of light in the dark, the dogs
raise up their heads only to lay them down on their paws
again. A feeling so motherless
ached its honest agony my mind pulsed with the pain.
Wept into waves. Wave after wave
said, Shh Shh Shh. Arms came near me
only to draw away again. I wept, a grown man,
a rage-machine, & called out
                             mother.
          The River Anxious is one of the names
for the distant streams that weave together into Ocean.
The River Grief & The
River of Yesterday’s Summer are others. &
The River I’ll Show You What Mean Means whose waters,
dense as olive oil, run through the River Forgive
Me, though the waters never mix. & then
there is the river of a soldier’s long hair flowing out
behind him as he runs. Strange
thoughts weep on the edge
of the mind. The world comes together as
knowledge falls apart. Gull bright
in moonlight. Read the omen, you
                                   seers.
& when she comes she asks you to tell her all you know—
a goddess, who knows all there is to
know. That’s what a mother does—coaxes you
to talk to yourself until you learn to fall asleep
on your own. & when she comes, she calls you by the only name
you’ve ever known, Child. Sweet Techne. My Tech-
nology. What is
the knowledge a child holds? When what you love
is taken from you
                    you love it all the more. Which
doesn’t feel exactly new, surprising as
it is each time it happens—a wave drawing back &
never returning. When in the night
you want a drink of water and the cup is full of
salt. Everything tastes like tears
when the sea is
your mother. A wound can be healed
by rubbing a balm on the blade that made it; &
so a palm can be wounded; & the
posset of wine & grain & crumbled cheese
separates
if you don’t stir it. Rehearse the truths
until they’re true, & then ask a god to
                                     intervene.
One way to suffer less is to make others suffer more.
    Mother, the
              Mother, the
long hair flows out from the helmet as the soldier runs
forward into the dust his own feet have raised, &
I’ve seen it, I’ve
seen how the river-flag of countless threads
flows out
behind the head almost as if forever   past
the battle field & over the
Aegean, over the rocky islands where the dumb
goats graze on thin grass & time
is what—a broken tooth—as is youth—flowing
into heaven itself, obscuring
the stars until the knife blade of the curved moon
shears the split-ends, & there
they are, those new-shorn stars, sort of dull-shining—&
you can grab the
                    Mother, the
                            Mother, the
end of a Greek man’s hair & wind & wind it
around your fist like   like
some storm-cloud gathering & getting closer   like
like the
words whisper similarities into your ear
        almost like a lover
until the back of the man’s head is against
the blade
        edge of your outer palm, & what
then
        do with this then? Weep
                an hour & call it a sea? Or
                                     memorize
the tangled minutes of the teeth of the comb caught in a boy’s
        long hair? A
                                     god nods
off in the mountains & dreams the ocean somehow so warm
embraces his knees & asks a
question   will you love what I love as I love what
I love   the riddle is
        a lullaby   a vulture
looks at a rock like he knew it once long ago   a god
nods &
        already an arrow is
an eros-rose is
                an error is an old sore
a god shoots an arrow around the world & catches it
in the hand that let go the string. Â Â No time passes.
        The miracle-thing yawns
                it shall be so. It shall be
so. The bright moon
on the flat ocean is a blank page   nothing
ends its blankness   nothing is blanker
                      a name writ in water, water is
the epic is only a word. No one I know knows the word.
A boy cries his tears. The epic
says Memory, Memory—speak, speak
the
    heart-hurt long-hair-braid cicada-song—
sing the, sing the
    mother putting a pin in her hair,
cruel kings & their sun-dial machinations   you know
      Mother,
              Mother,
rage has a plan
B
Hollowness exists but cannot
be used until the swift ship is built around it—.
Emptiness exists but cannot be
felt until a man is built around it—
      & some say heart & some say mind
      is the name   &
some say soul or or
      anger’s stutter or the dream thermals
      on which the vultures spiral &
      rise somewhere behind the sternum or the eyes—.
Nothing exists but
cannot be seen until the crow-beak curve of
      the prow cuts
      through Aegean foam—
library catalog of the mind on loan & the poet prays
      to Memory
      to remember the names & prays
Memory use my mouth
      to say the names:
much begatness. Like a little Leviticus but older than
babble. The baby’s saying mu mu
      becomes a mouth becomes a myth becomes
the little hollow where the spears &
      arrows are stored in the ship—.
      & the roses   or
the petals thereof—. You learn to pull apart what you love—
to prove you love—
what you love—.
A man’s mind turns as he turns the spit & the ox-thigh smoke
      pleases the gods & the meat
            pleases the man, & a thought is
            different than
      a plan. & a man can have many minds, too many—
& faith demands you change each or you suffer
      certainty—
which looks like
what—
a list of names, but feels like shame—
                  SHATTERED-FOOT. GOD-KNOWING.
                  THE-NEW-WAR. ACHE-MACHINE.
                  MIDDLE-GOD. BATTLE-LOVE.
                  BEFORE-THE-MIND. SHIELD-KILLER.
                  WANDER-WONDER. RUMOR-MILL.
                  FATHERS-GLORY. BATTLE-MAN.
                  GOOD-TO-EAT. ENEMY-OF-MY-ENEMY.
There is to the soul a logic many have said so—
so deep no mind can fathom—
sinks as the sun sinks into the ocean but like the sun
never drowns in the water, the logic
is there in the morning, the logic of the morning—
                  SHINING-UPON. BABY-KING.
                  DAUGHTER-OF-SNOW. CHILD-OF-GOLD.
& some men try to game it school it reverse it
      lords of men, shepherds of epic
similes who are themselves fated to feel their lips   as if
their lips were their own   he-goat
nibbling pebbles to find the sparse grass   like
like my lord-of-men   who is
   an ill-gotten cloak who can hold a spear
      pretending his daughter was a doe on an altar
so may there be   might there be   a wind
      to fill a sail, breath enough   to fill
   a sail
            is that what a daughter is   breath   filling a sail
                  NEVER-BOWING. BORN-OF-STRENGTH.
you make your sacrifices & live with yourself   your you you are
the breath inside the letter a  the
wisdom of never saying I
a word the furies love & you speak
   your second-person   disguise
a trick that tricks no one   except the gods
who like to be tricked   because it gives them a reason
for revenge—. The debt
love is—. When love is
smoke’s savor.
         It’s a story everyone already knows—
redundant, so pure—
& the one who listens says, I’ve heard this one before—
   & stops listening—
which is when the story gets to work, weeping
   hours into the sea.
A Dream comes & calls you Tame. Accuses you
of sleeping. Tamer of horses you
sleep. You sleep, & so you see me. A Dream
who wants you to wake. &
the Dream begins the similes, litanies of likeness—
bees in bronze armor
& the wind bows down the wheat   obeisance to
the cloud gone rose gone bruise gone wound o no
it’s the full moon once again   vanity-mirror in the sky   never asking why
though that’s your gravestone etching   the word why
the epic of the word why   written in water
  in dirt & in
fire   the stone dulls the blade that carves it   as a word dulls
           the mind
dark leather sandals on pale feet
         pale feet bright as the moon
the earth groans under the weight
the wheat the wind blows down shines brighter
the bright wheat bends down listening
         as is   as if
the earth whispers words you can hear
in the ears of wheat   & your ears
made of wheat   bread
tastes like home even when from home you’re far away
tears rhyme with spears &
the mind is only the wind with the first letter
   turned upside down
& so is the wind   the mind
  a tear in the spare thought   it could be
         otherwise
but it’s not   the Dream smiles but seldom the dreamer
   even in the sun’s antique light
         & in the air the scent of mint & thyme
                  a kind of   accusation   a fact-check
in the sun’s ancient light there is an altar
    even now there is   & a priest
staring into the light to define what he sees   a snake
    in the blindness   a hole
in an oak   sparrows   nestlings in the solar blank
what will be will be   wind   daughter   doe
    do what a snake does do
swallows whole the children while the mother weeps
    but her weeping is a tune—
music even the Muses don’t want to know   but do
                  know   the wind
never changes its mind   or seldom does
     the wind that says the rumor is   what is
rumor is the snake   is the snake ate the mother   too
& then the snake   somehow   turned into stone
such is   in this world   the story of how stones
became stones—
the word why carved into a stone   careful, traveler, stop—
don’t step here   here in the noon-time white none-ness of
of-ness   the genitive that says thou thou
begat one who begets another   (the father turns the page
with an antler
not a hand—
a simple turn of his head turns the page)
         careful, reader   you reader of
         poems—
a wasp wearing armor will sting you if you walk by uncaring
spare me a tear
weep me a spear
says the epic   wrath-lyric   no, nothing is so long ago
a bell rings inside a flame
the music came & the music moved through me
I didn’t know how to hide my face—
Inside a name. Or inside shame.
         The bees fly out from a hole in a rock
         & the beggar begs his coins
         the gold sun sometimes seems so much like a circle
         asking you what it is you want
         to buy
         you want to   I want to   buy
                  an old hour already used
                  some dust
                  a wall   a tower   the sun as a candle’s flame
                  & a hive heavy enough to bend down an ancient oak’s bough
