One can only know that for the present one’s heart continues to beat.
—Mina Loy in a letter to a friend.
Inspired as I’ve now begun by writing such,
wired over much which I’ve spoken
since ever has any
discipline’s climactic journey as to ever be
on the moon. You’ll see clear to facet
its an icy highway
I rode to resting here. I beg sustenance
from the balances outside, as I have
of the indoors.
The attempts leaning often to a singular
side and into which personage
that is incorruptible.
These last few months are escapades that
I ware too far upon the remaining
time—all memories, artifacts
in commensuration, corridors left. All I shall
impassion towards you and intone myself
with all doorways closing in
at this time’s recording. If we’ve a forge of
ourselves like metal, pedaling both
to lust and religion,
then be we contained in its back and forth;
it’s some kind of dementia of two.
Recall in each hour
how drips like a plastic faucet it were;
oh! who believed such greasy
the super nova of thoughts
I accomplished since my instant hesitations.
How many cantos I concur here as to it
my formation
is to be of any truth to you.
Nearer and nearer to the shores I have
spent. In mythology boxes, what
stories are to become
See Orpheus turn vanishing to his
Eurydice’s resurrection—know
that gods always, and
I mean always, have a sense of
humor towards what they
give to any human.
Think to Job and his forgiveness to
God—what sores of hell He
placed to that man.
Such alike to Circe’s magic toils to
Odysseus’ crew—into swine and
such rooting mud; this, the
cause of lovers, piece by piece
her wrath; for this lies in
a man, lay in many men.
And no better fare Medea’s spite upon
her beloved spouse. In faith, her
spells she’d cast for him.
Alas, with unfaithful act returns. But
to costs of him in her rage, his
seeds each hacked
apart; the Mother to her own
son, and to her daughter
own, a merciless as any
sacrifice. Remember these my
warnings. I’ve traveled there
with the witness for you.
And to you, I write the recall of one man
for the many of humanity
bring forth in further
letters, as wisdom, is kind to speak of this.
—May 11—18 2017, P. Calvert Scearce (p.c. scearce)
I began this poem in 1996 and recently found it. I split it apart from its original form and into the two poems above. More are forthcoming and deal with mythologies and directives from ancient religious texts.
