The One-Eyed Man March 31, 2008
Out of breath the Fool reaches the mountain.
There a continuous breeze ruffles the copious feathers
on the Fool’s head.
His skin falls like snow on the harsh ground.
It is one of the nether months
Camouflaged right and left
Nooks secure saints and candles.
The fire by which the Fool retires
Leaves a redder glow than the sunset
On his cheeks.
He wakes stiff with anger and distaste
his mouth foul with the obsolete swearing
he greets his pains and bitterness with.
Tipping his hat to the glowering fire in the sky-
it is late morning; in the sands memory is short-
an old man prepares his grub; crow flesh under
soon-burning land. The silent ones have grown
unbecoming, pity Ashtoreth, the Fool groans
with fire in his belly.
“I am aging now I know;
That was many years ago,
Yet or I shall rest below
In the grave where none intrude”
-EASTER EVE by Archibald Lampman (1861-99)
“Now this garden was named the Garden of Gladness and therein stood a belvedere hight the Palace of Pleasure.”
-Arabian Nights
Blind in the wake of light, the Fool hurtles
through the land, a rosary of footprints
in the hands of the blind lady of the desert.
The years with their peculiar flavors
waft by him. In a long garden of gladness
he spends his nights where
none might intrude.
It seems not long- a moment’s search
the sands sift again under weary feet.
The long night had brought the seeds-
a different day, another sun
another moon, a longing earth.
His cloth reaching the sand; his hand
clapped to the mouth
tasting the grapes of a land without.
Far away two towers.
The Fool shuffles to the fire;
on his wicked brow dances
the ghost of cleaved wood.
Should he look up; stand and deep sigh
the Great Fishes in waters beyond.
Yuletide
As good a time as any to make amends
The Fool draws his own blood
forked wood; it speaks
while it snivels in his ears.
From my innermost prejudices, I call you
on my loneliest night I call you
at my meanest I seek you
revel with me my own blood.
Don’t be huddled in a corner
like a demon wassailing torn-heart
pleading for gifts freely given.
“This said, the weeping youth again return’d
To the clear fountain, where again he burn’d; ”
-Metamorphoses By Ovid
The Fool approaches the man in water with caution.
Frog in the depth of wellness, his sunken eyes
flutter on the Fool’s own. It had been a long day.
The Fool’s sloping shoulders borne the weight
of the world; dying of thirst reached a fountain.
Called out for a hand to pour water where he lay
so his hand may reach the sun; plaything of the living.
“Steady” screams the Fool.
In the back of his mind bringing flint and flint together.
The world burning under the morning sun.
Awake.
In the distance of listening
fuelled by the powerful motor of gratitude
the Fool makes good his getaway.
Here he is. He wants to leave.
I will not let him go.
Always on my palm he will wade
till his skin turns salamander waters
inwards to me.
High on the towers a face turns to me
Riding on sunlight so many illusions
reach my eyes. Each one waits for the others.
Water dribbles making amends with
puffed tissue.
Unbidden my fancies towards her.
The stream water sparkles and hesitant shows me
and allows me dissolve in happiness.
Eyes in darkness; the Fool knows his way though
through his pickings of the midwife’s brain;
a chart that slips past subtle fingers.
Land into brine. Ahoy! the wave that
explodes; sun on sun; silver foundlings
occupy heaven and earth.
The Fool torn apart; darkness made light.
The sun emerges; the Fool rides
a snake of footprints;
cool desert floor that will hurt in a while
to each a grain of pain
the carrion Thought who resides where
she wishes-
each
each burning and burnt; her cool hand
reaches for.
The Fool madder than before.
The Fool wakes in the shade; cool evening
sleep and thirst still sing to him; thoughts
buzz and drone. The Fool shaking his head
free of sand. Ripe water of the oasis; the cricket
singing alone.
Trail of one dry heart, the desert spews
a Fool with longing burnt into him.
Birds circle carefully the fastness, beaks clamped tight
not a man in sight but the fiery Fool.
“Why in dead flesh the love of carrion resides?”
The Fool, softly to himself.
Madness had flown close by in the sand;
it had now a tower built around itself
Dusk without a timely murmur of protest.
The Tower stands gloomy and real
owing to fantastic heights
the Fool scales with wonder.
Or is it not he who stands there
on the rocky shore
and feels the dampness cling to him,
but the worm of the apple of his eye
descending into hints and storms
where his words are last whispered
to his own ears.
By his feet snails live and die one night
the water leaves him as soon as his touch
glorifies one night; one night fire burns
in the Tower inviting the hostage of warmth.
The Fool needs a magic word; he needs the residents
with their welcoming smiles; one face popping out
from the window above; a few more ushering
him in; arms and legs attached pell-mell
convincingly.
Carelessly the Fool meditates-
“How black her heart is
from her smiling lips her words bring unease.
Rapunzel I bring you fruits of a desert long-hidden
now she has come out of her veil
see her remove its veil
see her remove the veil
of her smile
more than you Rapunzel
you fade
you fade dear
her smile is my mask of death.”
Dry as husk the Fool is.
The Tower is a cool shade in the morning.
Mournfully the Fool walks away.
Confession to the One-Eyed Man
“And that prince who bases his power entirely on…words, finding himself completely without other preparations, comes to ruin;”
— Niccolo Machiavelli
In the kingdom of the blind, the one-eyed man is king.”
– Desiderius Erasmus
“A long way I have come
a long way less
a bag of odds and ends.”
The Fool confides in the one-eyed man
he has met on the Way.
Far be it for the Fool to venerate
this godsend, for times have
jilted him and honor escaped.
The Fool respects nothing but the dead
and obscurity beyond the grave. He says,
“Some friends yes some friends
diluted this wine shared this endless
my black move my white move
a line written a line understood.
Succubus still does visit
endless Succubus the years of pleasure
endless Succubus your birthing lips.
For the eyeless win from each possible view
even when unbeknownst to them
black night thunder comes
a hundred years of toil suddenly virile.
In the seed sleep is becoming
my fingers into a foetus-ball
the salt of anemone stings my eyes, water on water
on the free water
I see my face cowering beyond repair.”
The one-eyed man spits noisily on the swollen ground.
Nine humors, nine scarecrows
spring up against the darkness
flowering beneath the Fool’s skin.
They tear him apart, examine the feeder of carrion ages past
old enemy, unsavory sinner.
The Fool is a shade the Fool follows.
The Fool to be born to a womb, helpless.
Homecoming
The water is ailing; old stones arranged
rearranged at the long mouth of the sea.
The days stretch-
crocodiles blue with disease and longing
glazed eyes seeing and unseeing
the unseemly passage.
Water holds my ankle.
“Stay a while”.
I flutter at the beginning of
a thousand stories
look for a place somewhere
in between.
One crouches in the pages of an epic
one smothered in a baby’s cries
one foot follows another
unwary as the crow flies.
Flows like a story, one into the other.