—From a collage by Marsha Connell
The coral snake curls toward the fan
which is written as an invocation to the wind.
When it is hot fan yourself and pray at the same time,
two acts for the price of one,
a corsage of bluebells, the oxblood vase
is like a genii bottle, uncorked. Skeletons rising out.
A man and a woman curl in the pose of final sleep.
Not of our culture where we reside
in separate lead-lined coffins
with no hope of re-joining our species.
But the Tarot cards on the table are from another frame,
a woman in white watches over the game,
the long white hall with the burnished wood floors
has the stillness of a late Victorian afternoon.
While inside the caves the beasts
dream themselves into being.
The aurochs, the bison the, the Paleolithic horses,
the skeleton of a woman protect a child.
Her last act as mother. The man under her,
as if asleep, his thighs over her pelvis.
Perhaps it was a scene from Pompeii.
Who painted the caves of Altamira. Look up,
or Las Caux, the caves, who painted them,
Neanderthal or Cro-Magnon man? I
t was the Neanderthals who buried their dead with flowers.
The concept of an afterlife has been with us for a while.
The snake is curled around the leaves,
the moment just after having tasted the air.
poisonous or not? Count the color patterns
white black red or white red black like a chant
is the difference between life and death.
The music of the forest floor,
it’s as if someone just stepped out for a moment
and will return to finish the game.
But it was a long long time ago, judging by the clues.
It’s hard to say with a prognosis of the cards was,
but death is inevitably in the cards if you wait long enough.
The contemporariness of origins,
the first artists evolving the fruitful hearth.
And what are we searching for now, I wonder?
The millennium approaches, shaking its shaggy horns.
Summer 1992
When it is hot fan yourself and pray at the same time,
two acts for the price of one,
a corsage of bluebells, the oxblood vase
is like a genii bottle, uncorked. Skeletons rising out.
A man and a woman curl in the pose of final sleep.
Not of our culture where we reside
in separate lead-lined coffins
with no hope of re-joining our species.
But the Tarot cards on the table are from another frame,
a woman in white watches over the game,
the long white hall with the burnished wood floors
has the stillness of a late Victorian afternoon.
While inside the caves the beasts
dream themselves into being.
The aurochs, the bison the, the Paleolithic horses,
the skeleton of a woman protect a child.
Her last act as mother. The man under her,
as if asleep, his thighs over her pelvis.
Perhaps it was a scene from Pompeii.
Who painted the caves of Altamira. Look up,
or Las Caux, the caves, who painted them,
Neanderthal or Cro-Magnon man? I
t was the Neanderthals who buried their dead with flowers.
The concept of an afterlife has been with us for a while.
The snake is curled around the leaves,
the moment just after having tasted the air.
poisonous or not? Count the color patterns
white black red or white red black like a chant
is the difference between life and death.
The music of the forest floor,
it’s as if someone just stepped out for a moment
and will return to finish the game.
But it was a long long time ago, judging by the clues.
It’s hard to say with a prognosis of the cards was,
but death is inevitably in the cards if you wait long enough.
The contemporariness of origins,
the first artists evolving the fruitful hearth.
And what are we searching for now, I wonder?
The millennium approaches, shaking its shaggy horns.
Summer 1992
No comments:
Post a Comment