MEND YOUR CRICK

Harbor lights nightly bring to bear
their patterns of Search & Destroy

on the quiet, wide waters unfolded
beyond merely rocks-massive insistences

of the dry winking land... the police
chase Jack Th'Wrapper down Blackchapel

to take away his blank cellophane threats
against the World: Stop just using your hands!

(He is a criminal because he knows no other way
to reform the universe) self-rearranging,

catch the bride-forsaken idiots
are those who have not seen & believed

what I'm telling--Blessed! Blessed says the Bible
instead--Ok, ok, blessed idiots are those who believe,

who would like to catch the poet in some tiny work
(before he has the chance to escape):

if no nuts are available, purchase M&Ms, suck off
the coverings, and spit the nuts into your recipe,

leaving visible little gaps in the hallowed
walls of a God that stands forever

(they bring out the Monster that dwells in
our Deep, earth-shaking Imagination,

banging at the door of the lighthouse
disguised a beacon out there somewhere in a dare

kept lit by the power of the pumps of Contempt)

Man can't change, Nature changes Man, and
the Will of Man but strains at the shape,

Man can't change but he can light up the World,
baffling with his flame, enthralling to tell, ah,

scalding the Calm, molten meaning
in its clumsy musics of uninterrupted Grave,

his corpses marking the way over the waning waves,
sailors toward the solution, amen, sometimes

skating, sometimes scraped, almost always unpaid,
over the pavement crash forth the red carnations

over the universe--the carnage of man,

if he could change, by his Will--what insane shapes
forms would he not take! What untold riddles

wouldn't he spin out of dissolving dolphins & tantrums
immortal over the infinite vineyards of his drink,
chuckling engaged & goading his poetic goats
into a nightmare, sorcerers of self-indulgence,

men, pigeons his gains, if he could gather
into his mouth like mints: life's ever-postponing

minutes, amen, if he could outrun the interim
of his stance (that stays him never

beyond his utterance, minute & jammed), what
O what wouldn't he spit out!... amen, let him

but spread the message of his Soul
that flashes forth from the instant of his death

over unminding waves moving only that artificer
on man-daring wings--the morning giving his denial

to the enormous murder (what all men slay
in the dark instead) comes The Behemoth [& the AM I moth]

from the depths... to bang at the portals
of Man's beacon with his thundering threats:

Ocean the prophet wuthering the sapling Old Age,
the moonbeams celebrating O erratic Irony

and Circumstance (to see the so disturbing
dances of Chance) striking us dumb with moth-pollen
mopping up the land-defending sands

--Why does Behemoth come to lap at the lighthouse
of Man?...                                  

          (Quickly: Invent a love story,
trump up a volley of words to defend the tricks

of th'Imagination before us spread): Behemoth

in his rage splintered a thousandth
& everywhere around the beacon: trying to find

the girl that's been leading them around, astray
... their angry shouts breaking white foam

hellishly high against the stand of Man's unsplintered
ugliness                                            
         ... of Evil with a single aim,

over the sharpest stones he throws but to best his aim,
over the quiet stones he lays in the end

to shake the faith of his enemies, fountains of late
to slake his Fate, th'passionate dissociations of Destiny

reaching hand in hand against our upstanding minds
shelling their spumes of sense but candle [in the dark

cosmic] prows against the human hurricane,
against our torrential floods of dreams

as meaningless as waves, shaking behind the doors
closed to the dogs of day, our dark denials keeping us

where we stay, inviolable, impaling the multiples
out there, the mobs of alternatives

trembling with sin and shimmering
over our unyielding skin... amen.