it is a woman you found in the Hoggar
her body made of rain
and now that you have found the colors of her difference
at a word from you she’ll
drench that desert and New Aphrica
will happen to our heads,
our silly Tassili bone-dry brains
Robert Kelly, Annandale-on-Hudson, NY, 25.05.08
I was dancing with my loved one at … the Memphis Ptah Hop…I mean I THOUGHT it was my loved one. Prob’ly not. After all, no one other than I EXISTED in that epoch. I wondered: Could it be that the origin of jealous panic lies in the inexistence not only of the Other Lover but of the Beloved Herself? Is she not a creature of the Rules of the Dance, and the literal efficacy of the crooner’s mood and modality?
Well, on THIS dance floor, between red-headed I and indistinctly tinctured red-headed me, (deploy that aged dichotomy?-deploy or deplore-your choice), the towering ghostly priest-thing holds his crossed flutes, flails, and hammers, having stretched himself, mage-wise, into a transparent garment-being, one half stellar-luminated, one half all dark,
out among a space of intergalactic fogs and attenuated gasses, as well as among the stars.
Nebulae of insubstantial matter guash the ambient.
The Dance-now there were three of us-measured out the ecliptic-a luminous upward arcing streak across the image’s two lower quadrants.
The ecliptic and the changes that mark the ages prove that whatever we mark as time (time), is surely not. The very fact that we mark time marks time. Whether it is ours or some other collective makes the marking. We stipulate just this much regarding a certain canon of objectivity. It is not my horoscope that invented the wheel.
The world is parceled out between cows and horses: cows the Zeus-lot, horses Demeter and Poseidon. Our researches take us through the Mycenaean, so that we want to know just what has come to birth in the perpetual arrival of “the god who comes.” A consequence of having two many mothers, of both genders.
In the upper reaches of the image field a silly moose or petulant Flubadub-like animal, whose very existence struts disturbance to the ontic stability early television toyed with. There were philosophical discussions, as I remember, in the early fifties, the peanut gallery be my witness, whenever new kritters were introduced among the arrant characters.
Unlike the chatter in those precincts, the current telescreens purport the very happiness that beauty is-as a play of watery color and tentative outline, the comfort zone of outer space, a will to settle down wherever the horses run and all contented cows really do come home.
Charles Stein, Barrytown, NY, 25.05.08
The Last Dance
is a Coptic fox-trot, a Nubian two-step
It is performed sans feet in the sky that is sand that is sea
Save it for the me who is not “me” but a memory of aspirant ghosts
Save it for the moment the wrecking ball levels the ballroom
Save it for the hand that wrought these hosts
Mikhail Horowitz, Saugerties, NY, 27.05.08