Crusade

to Paul Mul­doon,
  in the knowl­edge that
  its time has come.

Only it
In itself
Has raised the prob­lem
So that
Wit­ting­ly
Its full bravu­ra
Can be dis­charged
Like a
Vol­canic
Ejac­u­la­tion
In the face of
The hum­drum and
The pan­jan­drum.
It is so very touch­ing
As it touch­es itself,
Wil­lowy fin­gers
Wisp­ing through all the
Artic­u­la­tions and
The twist­ed nerve-end­ings
So that
En fin
Plea­sure
Sacred plea­sure
May be had,
Amidst all the innu­en­do
And the insin­u­a­tion,
The tor­tu­ous
Path of the sinewy
And the mus­cu­lar
March­ing tri­umphal­ly
To its own very valid col­lu­sion.
And o
The sinews become tense
And reflec­tive,
They trem­ble with the fatigue of
Potent con­trac­tion,
Con­struct­ing the pur­pose­ful and
The jerky
Out of the pure,
Erect­ing the fan­ci­ful and
The cocky
Out of the benign,
In one delight­ful spasm
Of love most car­nal,
Love for one­self,
As you ride and
As you thrust for­ward
Your tongue into
Col­lec­tive­ness,
Lick­ing greed­i­ly the
Sweat-drops and the fetid
Secre­tions of
A thou­sand minds at work
Under the sun,
Lick­ing greed­i­ly and
Speak­ing up,
Lusti­ly sub­tract­ing from
From so much mater
The means to jus­ti­fy one self.
And yet it does not mat­ter
And yet it does,
As you vac­il­late between
Your dawn and dusk,
This is no field-day in the
Mighty sun,
This is a pen­du­lum
Of hit and run,
No mid of day or sum­mer
To enfold the sens­es
But hasty cal­i­bra­tion of
Myopic lens­es,
Like the clock­ing of a
Par­adise to a mil­lisec­ond,
Back and forth
Amass­ing in your palm
The grease to keep your
Grinder going.
And yet this palm­ing off
Must be a grind,
As you insist on palm­ing beau­ty
And behav­ing like a jack.
And yet beware
How you over­spend your vital juices
Beware
How you over­play your hand in
These here affairs
Of the tongue
For it is cer­tain that
Your end is not in
Palm­istry,
You are no mean
Jug­gler
Or uncom­mon fool,
You are sup­posed
Instead
To cry
With the less­er part of elo­quence
And the greater part of joy
Joy in the gift received
And ren­dered whole,
A cure as whole­some
As an affir­ma­tion
Of that
Most high
Roman­tic
Wiz­ardry,
That most arcane
Com­plex­i­ty of the
Mun­dane,
So do not ever yet
Try to escape,
Do not attempt the
Grand elope­ment or
The theft
Of all that is sup­posed
To stay
And con­spire,
Breath­ing its lusty life
Into your strange
Con­coc­tions,
Con­di­tion­ing your arti­fi­cial
Feet to the
Del­i­ca­cy of the nat­ur­al,
The soles bare­ly touch­ing
Their foot
Prints
And all this touch­ing
And this sole­cism
Allowed
In that it makes your
Walk­ing true
And mem­o­rable.
There’s no back-track­ing
From this strand
Unless
In utter
Thought­less­ness,
As your heart refus­es to quick­en
And the pot­sherds
Con­tained in the flot­sam
Are unable
To rec­ol­lect them­selves
Into any ves­sel of
Imme­di­ate use,
And in short
You are afraid,
Cast-away fear­some crea­ture
Most afraid of
Being feared
You,
With your lays
And play­ful ways,
Feared and thus
Assigned
To high­er duty,
Unable to shake off
This response-abil­i­ty
Most
Epic, –
At that
Unmed­i­tat­ed land­ing
Do not hes­i­tate
But walk away
Instead
Most sub­tly
And most tru­ly
Into the jun­gle,
Map­ping the inhos­pitable ter­rain
And nev­er ceas­ing to imag­ine
Ways of
Trans­port,
Indus­tri­ous means
And exor­bi­tant inven­tions
To take you
Deep­er and deep­er into the
Main,
Nev­er afraid
And always feared,
Affa­ble fab­ri­ca­tor
Of the fab­u­lous,
Humane
Yet mighty
O in the grasp
Of your
Sweaty palms,
As you unearth and
Scur­ry
And make inroads
Into the set-aside or
Diss-
Solu­tion of
Your
Self,
O res­olute
O sil­ly
Palmer
To most
Holy
Lands.