You radiance in wind, concentrically weaving in and out of window frames
in concrete and steel skeleton structures, whirl
toward my ruined orbit.
Help me to sprout coral branches of light
antennae of the Eternal, through the prison
of my skull. Lead my
resurrected INsight toward that mercurial
Sun-abyss where Archangels are holding council;
let me know those plans they’re
concocting for us down here. Let the eyes in your
photograph pasted to my wall, transmute to mine,
balance between Here and There.
Sweep, golden-angel-winged, into my monotonous
opacity, and spark that luminous
region near my heart
which, you say, moves to understand the stars,
that I may perceive Man’s spidery ties
to constellations:
And let my footsteps glide in tranquil three-time
pace, during the earthly sun-period of my brain;
for they are restless
as a broken radiator; and I am angry,
and gossip about my friends, and write popular songs.
Let the squealing tones
of my voice deepen, and my tongue learn the folly
of useless chatter. Make me wise to choose
to shun the Trap of Fame
whose prize is a great hunk of putrefacted cheese:
For I sniff at the plastic lures of the senses
and forget it is enough
for God to mouthe my name. Let Promethean fire
fill me, though chained to a rock; symmetry not entice,
nor the rectangles of Albers*.
Beholding, let me face the blind of back alleys:
And guide the words I write to join your beacon to the Gods!
(*a reference to the work of German-American artist-educator Josef Albers.)