Saturday, September 21, 2013

More Desk Drawer Mining

           Maine's Millennium

The heavenly sheriff might yet come
his great white horse maned with fire

come at a ghostly gallop down route nine
from Calais to Cape Porpoise to Kittery

past nested farms coastal cities country towns
where selected friends and neighbors

would disappear as simply as silently as they
lived yet always being there if need be

good mute faithful all with books in
balance some capital intact as father taught

deciding now after consideration and in 
fairness to give the Messiah a second chance.

          Dark Continent

Searching still for the Nile's source
we sample substance niaga, climb
the rhinencephalon to take a sight
on distance stellate ganglia where
flows the encephalon, where all
the natives still point south reciting
names of ancient cities sung of
but seldom seen. Will we ever reach
that fabled palace where the queen
of consciousness rules supreme
without a fixed address or throne?
Hippocampus, hypothalamus remain
points on our map with precious little
in between. What, we wonder rhymes
with amygdala? Wise men whisper:
you must follow your own star, follow
as your time unwinds bushing each
new pattern of colored sand away
you'll be swear when you arrive. 

1 comment:

  1. Bob,

    This is my third time trying to write a comment! These Google blog protocols are unforgiving: one error and one's tabula is again rasa.

    Russell Buker of Washington, Maine sent me this page in its anonymous state, and I had to scratch around to learn it was by you and that your poems are getting better and better, looser, denser, and intenser.

    We got lost yesterday driving home from Rumford/Andover through Peru with an 8th of a tank of gas on a gorgeous, winding, newly graveled, ten-mile road I thought was named, quite elegantly, Spruce Mountain Wind, as in winding, only to learn it was Wind as in turbines. Tant pis.

    A lawyer named Stephen Chute helped us get a R.O.W. to our landlocked camp, undoubtedly a relation, for the cost, of course, of a sailboat that could easily sleep four. That's okay. I don't like sailing.

    Carry on! All best, Ken Rosen