May it take millennia of rain to wear away our bones,

centuries of slow, voluptuous letting go.

Magic and Beauty

Man was able to exert and sometimes enforce his will upon nature, but he could do nothing to ensure the hunter’s success. The capture, it seemed, depended upon something beyond the scope of work or technique, upon some other world whence man was shut out at least while working, while imbued with the notions and rhythms of logical efficacity.

–GEORGES BATAILLE

The cave paintings at Lascaux

are unnecessarily beautiful,

though perhaps magic, to enjoin,

makes beauty a necessity.

But since magic resides in the act itself,

in the expropriation of the moment,

we must imagine the hunters rising at dawn

and walking into the earth.

Each carries, in a stone vessel,

a single color, gift of the sun,

beaten from root or berry.

Perhaps they’ve fasted and kept silent

and sat naked under the stars;

and now, their dreams preceding them,

maybe chanting to prepare their hearts,

they walk deep into the cave

and gather in the torch-flickered, glittering gallery

where each, in turn, will be lifted,

risen to appease

the strength and elegance of his prey,

to touch his fear, his hunger, his heart,

to know, as the hand does not hesitate

in the sweep of the bison’s horn,

that magic requires nothing,

it’s like stone,

and the beauty

called through our bodies

remains in our bones.

Day Moon

FOR MORRIS GRAVES

It’s what the minnow

Clasped in the soft beak

Murmurs to the hooded Spirit-Bird

Bearing her from liquid to liquid;

What shoe leather chants to the road;

Sleepers whisper to their dreams;

What seaweed sighs to waves,

Seed to wind, word to breath;

It’s what the boar, scooped by Vishnu

From the end of every exhalation

Like a coal to rekindle this garden of fevers,

Says with such tender and weary marvel:

“Each time

you carry me

this way.”

Karma Bird

Invisible and shrill,

the Karma Bird rides on your shoulder

like some gruesome offspring

of Long John Silver’s crusty parrot

and the raven that haunted Poe’s brain.

It’s clamped on your shoulder to remind you

that what’s purchased at the spirit’s expense

invariably falls due,

that what you give is finally what you get,

and what you get is yours.

So when karma curves ’round,

as it assuredly does,

that crass, gleeful bird goes crazy,

hopping up and down on your clavicle

while screeching righteously in your ear,

“Kar-ma! Kar-ma! Kar-ma!”

till you want to strangle the little fucker,

anything to shut him up.

For though it’s true

we act in constant ignorance

and often fail the faith we try to keep,

we’re wise to accept

all consequences as deserved–

but that doesn’t mean you have to like it,

much less love that demented bird.

The Tunnel

AN ELEGY FOR JACK SPICER

The poem ends when the feeling’s gone.