Prologue to Part TwO, Part 2

5.
in Allegorical doubling
Jack read of Achilles anger 
and the Emersonian Bibles
we should all write
He was drawn to that darkness 

of Nietzche in the desert, piled into 
the intimate emensity
of Bachelardian space, 
and a Mythic Hero 
with a Thousand Faces, 

in Eternal Return 
and cycling 
through the Sacred
and Profane and an Anatomy 
of this structure

would become Anxiety, 
a poem of Crispin
Achilles was kicking up dirt
on the Mesa, 

his bed pulled down 

and pressed to the clear pane 

Orion turned round
He saw everything 
behind--

It located Jack 

on the Earth.

He was camping by that wreck 
of an airplane she called, 
“...a broach.” He gave way to 
that aesthetic, 

but would notice 
the Bluebird flitting round 
the fence post, the shards scattered,
That dog, just stared .
Into the distance as she would--

As Jack read her the poem.
day, night
before night,
after-- and round 
the stars

6.
death before me,
death after me.
It was called the Heavenly Fable--,
Crispin was feeling good 
he was wondering of that poetry

 --was it as good as any 
ol’e lyric on the free formed radio?
The best part was 
it didn’t matter. 
As now it was all broken 

and he could toss 
another log on the fire,
making some blaze,
in the turning night,
there would always be that glow,

The first light in the morning.
Wave after Wave, 
of memory erupting 
The Mythic memory 
of earlier day,

That bird again, I mean 
these colors 
make some sense 
but then that dance,
and it worked, 

all the girls 
looked up and moved along,
Jack guffawed 
at that, he was looking 
for the Ideal BeautY, beyond

7.

Yes, he was amazed 

 He guessed it was 

the Second ParT

Jack thought putting 

it all together was some SublimE,

after all, it was all beyond

The explosion, 

we were all DeaD

the changes happened 

slowly-- the cow hip, pelvis bone 

breaking  

apart on the still-life table  

set to mark the change, 

it was decorated by the Tibetan flags,  

fluttering

and the vase-- 

containing flowers-- 

If they came again,

or last years remains

They were still a reality,

and he remembered, 

the shells 

as that was what 

they were, the bones

There was the wind 

the resultant weather  

a large part,

Jack watched it all, 

and he felt like home

in the mystery 

already there 

in the words, Such sHadowy 

slipPery stufF

but I’ve sworn against the SpoOky

mind-- Oh Natura, 

like tree, the thought of tree

like figure, like thought

barren, in winter--

then full in summer

Spring and AutumN


8.
He was off on another round
Whenever Jack was unsure 
  He went through them all, 
The pictograms balanced 
everything into a Vortex, 

out of which 
he slowly spread his wings...
and to think some of us 
have never seen 
the BirDs.

The genre mimicked life--
as it was a reflection of Achilles MinD
He’d go out to see--
Jack was taking off once more!
that Lucky Fellow!

Like now he created Jack 
and Henry,
the two Henry’s actually.
He wasnt crazy, just Mad 
about-- a divine metaphor

He knew what Home was now, 
So could come--
back, a retreat. Which made going out 
even better,
to write it all down, 

to paint some sense, 
into it all-- the ordering
Crispin made, just made uP
strange how they were becoming 
Heiroglyphic,