Search This Blog for Poems


Help us stay afloat...

Please follow our BLOG, and click on our ads once in a while...helps us keep our heads above water...

Poem of the Day -- "Ode to Salvador Dali" by Federico Garcia Lorca

We've featured several of Lorca's greatest poems on eNothing before - including "The Guitar" and "Ode to Walt Whitman" -- and so I thought it would be fitting to include another of his greatest poems, his personal tribute to his great friend, Salvador Dali.

The friendship between Lorca and the great Dali is a legendary tale and well documented both in works as well as stories and photographs.  The met in Madrid, Spain in the early 1920's when Lorca arrived to attend art school - to learn to draw and paint. See the sketch that Lorca drew of Dali (beginnings of Surrealism, here)

They became inseparable, strong friends and along with Luis Buñuel, the filmmaker, and other friends, they spent their time together talking, drinking, smoking, reading, and playing countless practical jokes and games.

Lorca and Dali influenced each others works greatly and Dali even designed the set for one of Lorca's early plays.  In several of Dali's paintings, Lorca's image can be seen floating about amidst severed bodies and ants and clouds.

They both embraced the influential French surrealism movement and became the movements more famous the end, Dali more so after he took up residence in Paris to grow with the surrealist movement.

Here is Lorca's Ode to his friend (which his friend took exception to as too critical when it was published) - a poem which is of global importance for it's subject matter and it's place in the history of art during the early 20th century.  


Ode to Salvador Dali

By Federico Garcia Lorca

A rose in the high garden you desire.
A wheel in the pure syntax of steel.
The mountain stripped bare of Impressionist fog,
The grays watching over the last balustrades.

The modern painters in their white ateliers
clip the square root's sterilized flower.
In the waters of the Seine a marble iceberg
chills the windows and scatters the ivy.

Man treads firmly on the cobbled streets.
Crystals hide from the magic of reflections.
The Government has closed the perfume stores.
The machine perpetuates its binary beat.

An absence of forests and screens and brows
roams across the roofs of the old houses.
The air polishes its prism on the sea
and the horizon rises like a great aqueduct.

Soldiers who know no wine and no penumbra
behead the sirens on the seas of lead.
Night, black statue of prudence, holds
the moon's round mirror in her hand.

A desire for forms and limits overwhelms us.
Here comes the man who sees with a yellow ruler.
Venus is a white still life
and the butterfly collectors run away.


Cadaqués, at the fulcrum of water and hill,
lifts flights of stairs and hides seashells.
Wooden flutes pacify the air.
An ancient woodland god gives the children fruit.

Her fishermen sleep dreamless on the sand.
On the high sea a rose is their compass.
The horizon, virgin of wounded handkerchiefs,
links the great crystals of fish and moon.

A hard diadem of white brigantines
encircles bitter foreheads and hair of sand.
The sirens convince, but they don't beguile,
and they come if we show a glass of fresh water.


Oh Salvador Dali, of the olive-colored voice!
I do not praise your halting adolescent brush
or your pigments that flirt with the pigment of your times,
but I laud your longing for eternity with limits.

Sanitary soul, you live upon new marble.
You run from the dark jungle of improbable forms.
Your fancy reaches only as far as your hands,
and you enjoy the sonnet of the sea in your window.

The world is dull penumbra and disorder
in the foreground where man is found.
But now the stars, concealing landscapes,
reveal the perfect schema of their courses.

The current of time pools and gains order
in the numbered forms of century after century.
And conquered Death takes refuge trembling
in the tight circle of the present instant.

When you take up your palette, a bullet hole in its wing,
you call on the light that brings the olive tree to life.
The broad light of Minerva, builder of scaffolds,
where there is no room for dream or its hazy flower.

You call on the old light that stays on the brow,
not descending to the mouth or the heart of man.
A light feared by the loving vines of Bacchus
and the chaotic force of curving water.

You do well when you post warning flags
along the dark limit that shines in the night.
As a painter, you refuse to have your forms softened
by the shifting cotton of an unexpected cloud.

The fish in the fishbowl and the bird in the cage.
You refuse to invent them in the sea or the air.
You stylize or copy once you have seen
their small, agile bodies with your honest eyes.

You love a matter definite and exact,
where the toadstool cannot pitch its camp.
You love the architecture that builds on the absent
and admit the flag simply as a joke.

The steel compass tells its short, elastic verse.
Unknown clouds rise to deny the sphere exists.
The straight line tells of its upward struggle
and the learned crystals sing their geometries.


But also the rose of the garden where you live.
Always the rose, always, our north and south!
Calm and ingathered like an eyeless statue,
not knowing the buried struggle it provokes.

Pure rose, clean of artifice and rough sketches,
opening for us the slender wings of the smile.
(Pinned butterfly that ponders its flight.)
Rose of balance, with no self-inflicted pains.
Always the rose!


Oh Salvador Dali, of the olive-colored voice!
I speak of what your person and your paintings tell me.
I do not praise your halting adolescent brush,
but I sing the steady aim of your arrows.

I sing your fair struggle of Catalan lights,
your love of what might be made clear.
I sing your astronomical and tender heart,
a never-wounded deck of French cards.

I sing your restless longing for the statue,
your fear of the feelings that await you in the street.
I sing the small sea siren who sings to you,
riding her bicycle of corals and conches.

But above all I sing a common thought
that joins us in the dark and golden hours.
The light that blinds our eyes is not art.
Rather it is love, friendship, crossed swords.

Not the picture you patiently trace,
but the breast of Theresa, she of sleepless skin,
the tight-wound curls of Mathilde the ungrateful,
our friendship, painted bright as a game board.

May fingerprints of blood on gold
streak the heart of eternal Catalunya.
May stars like falconless fists shine on you,
while your painting and your life break into flower.

Don't watch the water clock with its membraned wings
or the hard scythe of the allegory.
Always in the air, dress and undress your brush
before the sea peopled with sailors and ships.

POEM OF THE DAY -- Are you the New Person Drawn Toward Me?

Are you the New Person Drawn Toward Me?

By Walt Whitman

ARE you the new person drawn toward me?
To begin with, take warning—I am surely far differ-
ent from what you suppose;
Do you suppose you will find in me your ideal?
Do you think it so easy to have me become your
Do you think the friendship of me would be unalloy'd
Do you think I am trusty and faithful?

Do you see no further than this façade—this smooth
and tolerant manner of me?
Do you suppose yourself advancing on real ground
toward a real heroic man?
Have you no thought, O dreamer, that it may be all
maya, illusion?

POEM OF THE DAY -- "3rd Chorus" by Jack Kerouac

And so, we continue with our intermittent study of Jack Kerouacs writings today with a piece from his classic "Mexico City Blues" collection of poems -- "3rd Chorus". Simple American life, safe American life -- EVEN 50 YEARS AGO Kerouac felt the peril of the neverending ballooning government of our nation.

Do the math, people. What's it now? Where are we headed? 5 years from now, who can afford a new pair of shoes?

The investment bankers, the brokers, the insurance companies.

That's who.

Who says Kerouac isn't relevant today? Enjoy.

3rd Chorus (from Mexico City Blues)

By Jack Kerouac

Describe fires in riverbottom
sand, and the cooking;
the cooking of hot dogs
spitted in whittle sticks
over flames of woodfire
with grease dropping in smoke
to brown and blacken
the salty hotdogs,
and the wine,
and the work on the railroad.

$275,000,000,000.00 in debt
says the Government
Two hundred and seventy five billion
dollars in debt
Like Unending
And Unnumbered Sentient Beings
Who will be admitted --
Not-Numerable --
To the new Pair of Shoes
Of White Guru Fleece
O j o!
The Purple Paradise

Top 100 or so Poems -- "America" by Allen Ginsberg

We've already paid homage to HOWL by Allen Ginsberg - arguably one of the top 10 poems of all time (depends who you are!) by tweeting every single line of that poem over a period of a few weeks. So now, we're faced with representing Ginsberg in the top 100 list, and this poem fits the bill.
A poem which lended itself nicely in the end to the protests for peace in the sixties, if you read it carefully and if you are an "occupier" then you will see suitable parrallels here (as you would in songs like George Harrisons "Piggies")
Anyway, his style influenced an entire generation of modernist free verse poetry, so enjoy this great piece.
by Allen Ginsberg
America I've given you all and now I'm nothing.
America two dollars and twentyseven cents January
17, 1956.
I can't stand my own mind.
America when will we end the human war?
Go fuck yourself with your atom bomb.
I don't feel good don't bother me.
I won't write my poem till I'm in my right mind.
America when will you be angelic?
When will you take off your clothes?
When will you look at yourself through the grave?
When will you be worthy of your million Trotskyites?
America why are your libraries full of tears?
America when will you send your eggs to India?
I'm sick of your insane demands.
When can I go into the supermarket and buy what I
need with my good looks?
America after all it is you and I who are perfect not
the next world.
Your machinery is too much for me.
You made me want to be a saint.
There must be some other way to settle this argument.
Burroughs is in Tangiers I don't think he'll come back
it's sinister.
Are you being sinister or is this some form of practical
I'm trying to come to the point.
I refuse to give up my obsession.
America stop pushing I know what I'm doing.
America the plum blossoms are falling.
I haven't read the newspapers for months, everyday
somebody goes on trial for murder.
America I feel sentimental about the Wobblies.
America I used to be a communist when I was a kid
I'm not sorry.
I smoke marijuana every chance I get.
I sit in my house for days on end and stare at the roses
in the closet.
When I go to Chinatown I get drunk and never get laid.
My mind is made up there's going to be trouble.
You should have seen me reading Marx.
My psychoanalyst thinks I'm perfectly right.
I won't say the Lord's Prayer.
I have mystical visions and cosmic vibrations.
America I still haven't told you what you did to Uncle
Max after he came over from Russia.
I'm addressing you.
Are you going to let your emotional life be run by
Time Magazine?
I'm obsessed by Time Magazine.
I read it every week.
Its cover stares at me every time I slink past the corner
I read it in the basement of the Berkeley Public Library.
It's always telling me about responsibility. Business-
men are serious. Movie producers are serious.
Everybody's serious but me.
It occurs to me that I am America.
I am talking to myself again.
Asia is rising against me.
I haven't got a chinaman's chance.
I'd better consider my national resources.
My national resources consist of two joints of
marijuana millions of genitals an unpublishable
private literature that goes 1400 miles an hour
and twenty-five-thousand mental institutions.
I say nothing about my prisons nor the millions of
underprivileged who live in my flowerpots
under the light of five hundred suns.
I have abolished the whorehouses of France, Tangiers
is the next to go.
My ambition is to be President despite the fact that
I'm a Catholic.
America how can I write a holy litany in your silly
I will continue like Henry Ford my strophes are as
individual as his automobiles more so they're
all different sexes.
America I will sell you strophes $2500 apiece $500
down on your old strophe
America free Tom Mooney
America save the Spanish Loyalists
America Sacco & Vanzetti must not die
America I am the Scottsboro boys.
America when I was seven momma took me to Com-
munist Cell meetings they sold us garbanzos a
handful per ticket a ticket costs a nickel and the
speeches were free everybody was angelic and
sentimental about the workers it was all so sin-
cere you have no idea what a good thing the
party was in 1835 Scott Nearing was a grand
old man a real mensch Mother Bloor made me
cry I once saw Israel Amter plain. Everybody
must have been a spy.
America you don't really want to go to war.
America it's them bad Russians.
Them Russians them Russians and them Chinamen.
And them Russians.
The Russia wants to eat us alive. The Russia's power
mad. She wants to take our cars from out our
Her wants to grab Chicago. Her needs a Red Readers'
Digest. Her wants our auto plants in Siberia.
Him big bureaucracy running our fillingsta-
That no good. Ugh. Him make Indians learn read.
Him need big black niggers. Hah. Her make us
all work sixteen hours a day. Help.
America this is quite serious.
America this is the impression I get from looking in
the television set.
America is this correct?
I'd better get right down to the job.
It's true I don't want to join the Army or turn lathes
in precision parts factories, I'm nearsighted and
psychopathic anyway.
America I'm putting my queer shoulder to the wheel.

Top 100 or so Poems "HOWL Part I" By Allen Ginsberg

This poem is the stuff of greatness, a masterpiece, revolutionary in it's creation, implementation, reading, even as spoken-word - a great mad Hell of heart flow and desperation - which many, including myself can still feel today in my own way (lurking underneath "it all").

I cannot do this poem justice. Simply, I will insert the actual Introduction as written by the great 20th Century poet, William Carlos Williams, and let you read the poem:

"When he was younger, and I was younger, I used to know Allen Ginsberg,
a young poet living in Paterson, New Jersey, where he, son of a well-known
poet, had been born and grew up. He was physically slight of build and
mentally much disturbed by the life which he had encountered about him
during those first years after the First World War as it was exhibited to
him in and about New York City. He was always on the point of 'going away',
where it didn't seem to matter; he disturbed me, I never thought he'd live
to grow up and write and book of poems. His ability to survive, travel, and
go on writing astonishes me. That he has gone on developing and perfecting
his art is no less astonishing to me.
Now he turns up fifteen or twenty years later with an arresting.
Literally, he has, from all the evidence, been through hell. On the way
he met a man named Carl Solomon with whom he shared among the teeth and
excrement of this life something that cannot be described but in the words
he has used to describe it. It is a howl of defeat. Not defeat at all for
he has gone through defeat as if it were an ordinary experience, a trivial
experience. Everyone in this life is defeated but a man, if he be a man,
is not defeated.
It is the poet, Allen Ginsberg, who has gone, in his own body, through
the horrifying experiences described from life in these pages. The wonder
of the thing is not that he survived but that he, from the very depths, has
found a fellow whom he can love, a love he celebrates without looking aside
in these poems. Say what you will, he proves to us, in spite of the most
debasing experiences that life can offer a man, the spirit of love survives
to ennoble our lives if we have the wit and the courage and the faith-and
the art! to persist.
It is the belief in the art of the poetry that has gone hand in hand
with this man into his Golgotha, from that charnel house, similar in every
way, to that of the Jews in the past war. But this is in our own country, our
own fondest purlieus. We are blind and live our blind lives out in blindness.
Poets are damned but they are not blind, they see with the eyes of the angels.
This poet sees through and all around the horrors he partakes of in the very
intimate details of his poem. He avoids nothing but experiences it to the hilt.
He contains it. Claims it at his own-and, we believe, laughs at it and has the
time and affrontery to love a fellow of his choice and record that love in a well-made
poem. Hold back the edges of your gowns, Ladies, we going through hell."

William Carlos Williams

Carl Solomon


I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by
madness, starving hysterical naked,

dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn
looking for an angry fix,

angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly
connection to the starry dynamo in the
machinery of night,

who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat
up smoking in the supernatural darkness of
cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities
contemplating jazz,

who bared their brains to Heaven under the El and
saw Mohammedan angels staggering on tenement
roofs illuminated,

who passed through universities with radiant cool eyes
hallucinating Arkansas and Blake-light tragedy
among the scholars of war,

who were expelled from the academies for crazy &
publishing obscene odes on the windows of the

who cowered in unshaven rooms in underwear, burning
their money in wastebaskets and listening
to the Terror through the wall,

who got busted in their pubic beards returning through
Laredo with a belt of marijuana for New York,

who ate fire in paint hotels or drank turpentine in
Paradise Alley, death, or purgatoried their
torsos night after night

with dreams, with drugs, with waking nightmares, alcohol
and cock and endless balls,

incomparable blind streets of shuddering cloud and
lightning in the mind leaping toward poles of
Canada & Paterson, illuminating all the
motionless world of Time between,

Peyote solidities of halls, backyard green tree cemetery
dawns, wine drunkenness over the rooftops,
storefront boroughs of teahead joyride neon
blinking traffic light, sun and moon and tree
vibrations in the roaring winter dusks of Brooklyn,
ashcan rantings and kind king light of mind,

who chained themselves to subways for the endless
ride from Battery to holy Bronx on benzedrine
until the noise of wheels and children brought
them down shuddering mouth-wracked and
battered bleak of brain all drained of brilliance
in the drear light of Zoo,

who sank all night in submarine light of Bickford’s
floated out and sat through the stale beer
afternoon in desolate Fugazzi’s, listening to the crack
of doom on the hydrogen jukebox,

who talked continuously seventy hours from park to
pad to bar to Bellevue to museum to the
Brooklyn Bridge,

a lost battalion of platonic conversationalists jumping
down the stoops off fire escapes off windowsills
off Empire State out of the moon,

yacketayakking screaming vomiting whispering facts
and memories and anecdotes and eyeball kicks
and shocks of hospitals and jails and wars,

whole intellects disgorged in total recall for seven days
and nights with brilliant eyes, meat for the
Synagogue cast on the pavement,

who vanished into nowhere Zen New Jersey leaving a
trail of ambiguous picture postcards of
Atlantic City Hall,

suffering Eastern sweats and Tangerian bone-grindings
and migraines of China under junk-withdrawal
in Newark’s bleak furnished room,

who wandered around and around at midnight in the
railroad yard wondering where to go, and went,
leaving no broken hearts,

who lit cigarettes in boxcars boxcars boxcars racketing
through snow toward lonesome farms in grandfather

who studied Plotinus Poe St. John of the Cross telepathy
and bop kabbalah because the cosmos instinctively
vibrated at their feet in Kansas,

who loned it through the streets of Idaho seeking visionary
indian angels who were visionary indian

who thought they were only mad when Baltimore
gleamed in supernatural ecstasy,

who jumped in limousines with the Chinaman of Oklahoma
on the impulse of winter midnight
streetlight smalltown rain,

who lounged hungry and lonesome through Houston
seeking jazz or sex or soup, and followed the
brilliant Spaniard to converse about America
and Eternity, a hopeless task, and so took ship
to Africa,

who disappeared into the volcanoes of Mexico leaving
behind nothing but the shadow of dungarees
and the lava and ash of poetry scattered in
fireplace Chicago,

who reappeared on the West Coast investigating the
FBI in beards and shorts with big pacifist
eyes sexy in their dark skin passing out
incomprehensible leaflets,

who burned cigarette holes in their arms protesting
the narcotic tobacco haze of Capitalism,

who distributed Supercommunist pamphlets in Union
Square weeping and undressing while the sirens
of Los Alamos wailed them down, and wailed
down Wall, and the Staten Island ferry also

who broke down crying in white gymnasiums naked
and trembling before the machinery of other

who bit detectives in the neck and shrieked with delight
in policecars for committing no crime but their
own wild cooking pederasty and intoxication,

who howled on their knees in the subway and were
dragged off the roof waving genitals and

who let themselves be fucked in the ass by saintly
motorcyclists, and screamed with joy,

who blew and were blown by those human seraphim,
the sailors, caresses of Atlantic and Caribbean

who balled in the morning in the evenings in rosegardens
and the grass of public parks and
cemeteries scattering their semen freely to
whomever come who may,

who hiccuped endlessly trying to giggle but wound up
with a sob behind a partition in a Turkish Bath
when the blond & naked angel came to pierce
them with a sword,

who lost their loveboys to the three old shrews of fate
the one eyed shrew of the heterosexual dollar
the one eyed shrew that winks out of the womb
and the one eyed shrew that does nothing but
sit on her ass and snip the intellectual golden
threads of the craftsman’s loom,

who copulated ecstatic and insatiate with a bottle of
beer a sweetheart a package of cigarettes a candle
and fell off the bed, and continued along
the floor and down the hall and ended fainting
on the wall with a vision of ultimate cunt and
come eluding the last gyzym of consciousness,

who sweetened the snatches of a million girls trembling
in the sunset, and were red eyed in the morning
but prepared to sweeten the snatch of the sunrise,
flashing buttocks under barns and naked
in the lake,

who went out whoring through Colorado in myriad
stolen night-cars, N.C., secret hero of these
poems, cocksman and Adonis of Denver—joy
to the memory of his innumerable lays of girls
in empty lots & diner backyards, moviehouses’
rickety rows, on mountaintops in caves or with
gaunt waitresses in familiar roadside lonely
petticoat upliftings & especially secret gas-station
solipsisms of johns, & hometown alleys too,

who faded out in vast sordid movies, were shifted in
dreams, woke on a sudden Manhattan, and
picked themselves up out of basements hung
-over with heartless Tokay and horrors of Third
Avenue iron dreams & stumbled to
unemployment offices,

who walked all night with their shoes full of blood on
the snowbank docks waiting for a door in the
East River to open to a room full of steam-heat
and opium,

who created great suicidal dramas on the apartment
cliff-banks of the Hudson under the wartime
blur floodlight of the moon & their heads shall
be crowned with laurel in oblivion,

who ate the lamb stew of the imagination or digested
the crab at the muddy bottom of the rivers of

who wept at the romance of the streets with their
pushcarts full of onions and bad music,

who sat in boxes breathing in the darkness under the
bridge, and rose up to build harpsichords in
their lofts,

who coughed on the sixth floor of Harlem crowned
with flame under the tubercular sky surrounded
by orange crates of theology,

who scribbled all night rocking and rolling over lofty
incantations which in the yellow morning were
stanzas of gibberish,

who cooked rotten animals lung heart feet tail borsht
& tortillas dreaming of the pure vegetable

who plunged themselves under meat trucks looking for
an egg,

who threw their watches off the roof to cast their ballot
for Eternity outside of Time, & alarm clocks
fell on their heads every day for the next decade,

who cut their wrists three times successively unsuccessfully,
gave up and were forced to open antique
stores where they thought they were growing
old and cried,

who were burned alive in their innocent flannel suits
on Madison Avenue amid blasts of leaden verse
& the tanked-up clatter of the iron regiments
of fashion & the nitroglycerine shrieks of the
fairies of advertising & the mustard gas of sinister
intelligent editors, or were run down by the
drunken taxicabs of Absolute Reality,

who jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge this actually happened
and walked away unknown and forgotten
into the ghostly daze of Chinatown soup alleyways
& firetrucks, not even one free beer,

who sang out of their windows in despair, fell out of
the subway window, jumped in the filthy Passaic,
leaped on negroes, cried all over the street,
danced on broken wineglasses barefoot smashed
phonograph records of nostalgic European
1930s German jazz finished the whiskey and
threw up groaning into the bloody toilet, moans
in their ears and the blast of colossal

who barreled down the highways of the past journeying
to each other’s hotrod-Golgotha jail-solitude
watch or Birmingham jazz incarnation,

who drove crosscountry seventytwo hours to find out
if I had a vision or you had a vision or he had
a vision to find out Eternity,

who journeyed to Denver, who died in Denver, who
came back to Denver & waited in vain, who
watched over Denver & brooded & loned in
Denver and finally went away to find out the
Time, & now Denver is lonesome for her heroes,

who fell on their knees in hopeless cathedrals praying
for each other’s salvation and light and breasts,
until the soul illuminated its hair for a second,

who crashed through their minds in jail waiting for
impossible criminals with golden heads and the
charm of reality in their hearts who sang sweet
blues to Alcatraz,

who retired to Mexico to cultivate a habit, or Rocky
Mount to tender Buddha or Tangiers to boys
or Southern Pacific to the black locomotive or
Harvard to Narcissus to Woodlawn to the
daisychain or grave,

who demanded sanity trials accusing the radio of
hypnotism & were left with their insanity & their
hands & a hung jury,

who threw potato salad at CCNY lecturers on Dadaism
and subsequently presented themselves on the
granite steps of the madhouse with shaven heads
and harlequin speech of suicide, demanding
instantaneous lobotomy,

and who were given instead the concrete void of insulin
Metrazol electricity hydrotherapy psychotherapy
occupational therapy pingpong &

who in humorless protest overturned only one symbolic
pingpong table, resting briefly in catatonia,

returning years later truly bald except for a wig of
blood, and tears and fingers, to the visible madman
doom of the wards of the madtowns of the

Pilgrim State’s Rockland’s and Greystone’s foetid
halls, bickering with the echoes of the soul,
rocking and rolling in the midnight solitude-bench
dolmen-realms of love, dream of life a nightmare,
bodies turned to stone as heavy as the

with mother finally ******, and the last fantastic book
flung out of the tenement window, and the last
door closed at 4 A.M. and the last telephone
slammed at the wall in reply and the last
furnished room emptied down to the last piece of
mental furniture, a yellow paper rose twisted
on a wire hanger in the closet, and even that
imaginary, nothing but a hopeful little bit of

ah, Carl, while you are not safe I am not safe, and
now you’re really in the total animal soup of

and who therefore ran through the icy streets obsessed
with a sudden flash of the alchemy of the use
of the ellipsis catalogue a variable measure and the
vibrating plane,

who dreamt and made incarnate gaps in Time & Space
through images juxtaposed, and trapped the
archangel of the soul between 2 visual images
and joined the elemental verbs and set the noun
and dash of consciousness together jumping
with sensation of Pater Omnipotens Aeterna

to recreate the syntax and measure of poor human
prose and stand before you speechless and
intelligent and shaking with shame, rejected yet
confessing out the soul to conform to the rhythm
of thought in his naked and endless head,

the madman bum and angel beat in Time, unknown,
yet putting down here what might be left to say
in time come after death,

and rose reincarnate in the ghostly clothes of jazz in
the goldhorn shadow of the band and blew the
suffering of America’s naked mind for love into
an eli eli lamma lamma sabacthani saxophone
cry that shivered the cities down to the last radio

with the absolute heart of the poem of life butchered
out of their own bodies good to eat a thousand