Trestle Board
Blue car tapeworm.
Bowelwork: stars in blue ink.
Now, state your intention.
The haruspices show influences, affirm Saturn’s entanglement, with these certain veins and vessels here, affirm confusion.
Saturn blue. Law ink. Saturday Sabbath. I sacrifice, make sacred this day. This is the mystery of the creative word. The creative word– that the word is not creative, but revises: all poetry is revision– the words we speak enter the written law. The Sabbath is our listening…
Saturn trembles at our subversion: my body is the cradle for what comes to mind. A magnetic patience shortens my personal distance from the unending day of action.
The tyrannical planets tremble.
Each thing discovers the primacy of the word.
Grasp the star in your liver.
Obol.
The image is passage.
Don’t explain too much.
The three sisters draw their swords, and the snake is cut into
three pieces.
The snake howls beyond our body and whets the forest’s edge
that slices through.
Through two. Through three.
Throbbing, follow.
The pen’s career through the forest of white wood
at the size and speed of mind tells my line, lives.
The forest’s inhabitants, follow.
The forest shuffles forward through the trees.
The sisters cut themselves from the serpent that surrounds the forest.
The serpent’s cutting edge they consider their bodies, slicing forward:
snake trees in morning’s splendor.
Words on a white page. Us strangers in a play.
Lines, colors, to show the way. Dromenon. Mandala. Dissolve this image.
These were the three named Hiram.
That will be our names.
The Master Builder of Solon’s orchard.
Here our ritual returns to its Egyptian sources. The painting above my desk, done by a local, of Imagination’s blue pond.
Take off your lid and dip in your pen.
Let’s find out who we’re talking to.
