Thursday, May 29, 2014

J.P. Dancing Bear


“…it seemed that the scaramouch in question had  gained a wonderful 
ascendancy over almost everybody in the
                                                —Herman Melville, Moby-Dick
            Punch: What have got there, sir? In your hand?
Scaramouch:  A fiddle.
                                                —The Tragical Comedy
The sky breaks apart and of what falls,
scatters, becomes the sea, cheered on
: a fanfare of sails flapping.
You cannot remember the tail splashing
water : evaporated into a cloud :
you throw your hands up to the sky
: so certain of His work. 
Your body is clown white : your heart
: the moon rising
from the ocean’s side, wrapped
in three missing pages from your bible,
yellowing with age. 
You are God’s comedian though
only the gulls ever laugh. 
What's left to you : memories
: bread from another life :
a beaten dog : years training
the fiddle.
The waves are alive : sparkling
dark wraiths : greener than your
envy : fear whispers : crew is
creaking planks : you no longer
listen : too busy preaching : spin
the gospel : slap the cross :
book slam hand : a lapping ocean. 
Forget the stars : Callisto eyeing
the north : forget cruelty : scar
and mended bone : aching
with the change of weather.  
You are the Chosen : Messenger : 
Puppet of the pulpit.  Leave fishwives
to their gossipy shores : God still punishes
: flesh of the flesh of one apple.  Think not
of happiness : of pleasure : flog it
out of your mind : let the tempests
wash it away : you know you’ve always been
The gulls punch through cumulous
musings of the Lord : hover-cry
parablic tragedies over men :
O thrown shadow : O harlequin
: no one heeds your warning :
soon they’ll beg to repent
: throw your dagger words :
curse the captain :  his ship  

to the white, angry tongue of God


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