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.
“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.”
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.
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.
The evening is shallow
not beyond knee-deep we venture
stars deep in your eyes, old diamonds
savage conversation over dinner.
The evening moves slow.
Dinner laid out on the table
draws us together.
Our thin shadows swing.
A fly buzzing miserable draws us in.
The rain quiets down everything.
Conversation keeps the light away
where I sit to dine this evening.
A girl coos to her friend
citing the invisible rain.
The flippant fingers of love grip my head.
The rain quiets down everything.
I place a muffled order.
The hostess, an old bat
brings my food.
Her wings unfurl as she
goes to her corner.
The rain has made her forbidding
Love up and down the pillar of your throat
such blue ink indent
parching voice demon-drown along
the pure marble of your high colors.
In old dreams, suffering from strange thoughts.
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
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.
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 water moves my heart block by block.
Kid’s idea of a house, half-hearted playground.
Year come around; explode light along everlasting funnel
And I am falling; my wings fold resigned.
I turn my breath inwards Morning Star.
Pull happiness like a trigger.
It was time to return from the playground
there were dark patches on my arms.
Ghosts fussed about me
poured water that ran down
my throat and burnt my eyes.
I had been in old dreams
suffering from strange thoughts.
It was evening when I woke up.
I sat alone
a glass of tea in front
and listened to the world fall asleep.
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.
