Balzac has a secret —

his impeccable romance,

crazy beyond concern,

unripe fruit of the sycamore tree,

boisterous down by the river of the unkept docks,

he delivers,

untuned to his calling,

a beating box

deaf to its own lone chime,

inaudible even to passers by,

set in burgundy and marble pequins;

he is hungry, eating his own regards,

unknown still to a race that calls his name —

Balzac —

dancing beauregard.

Balzac is unknowable —

as are you,

my impecunious,

unceremonious Queen.

Try deciphering

his unpunctilious lines

with their comedy spare,

their adjectives so unrepentant.

Try unboiling the mystery

that opens up to you upon every page,

as the seraphim’s last dance

does impinge upon your very lasting secret.

This I speak withal.

End this my vision,

O Lord of my life —

may the juices of the flowered vine

run down no longer.

Cease from offering thy fruits,

that I might spare mine eyes this wicked sight:

the scholar and the scribe,

and the destroyer,

hastening the end of all thy children.

Would, O Lord, that I had been borne forth

from off my mother to the stable shade

an empty husk.

Be my brothers thus so unreformed,

so unrepentant?

Let them die.

But thou dost blow me out till I am parched;

you wring me blood from bone;

I have no rest —

this, the recompense to those who serve you.

Bring me, O Shepherd, not to the conclusion

I lie awake and tear my heart in vain;

for your mercies stand forever.

I walk as evidence that you alone

fail not; you trail the humble man anew each day.

I will stand upon my bed and sing aloud:

a song for Zion, a dirge for the Redeemer;

a mighty victory to the sound of horns;

a note of hope to all those doomed to die.

The demoniac

wet-whistles —

seethes loudly —

throws all the stones of his heart-wrack behind him —

is chilled —

bellows blindly —

the demoniac —

in the sun,

dressed in made-up fancies,

is asunder —

blown to pieces —

he is Egypt fallen

in the summer sky.

Babylon, O Babylon,

what aileth thee?

Mourn thou thy children,

smothered in the grave?

Raise now thy boast

to which great nations served at your behest.

Raise thou thy children

in a day of great rejoicing.

Sit,

thou harlot of harlots,

against the stony bank of the great Euphrates,

skirts around you,

scattered in the dust.

Dwell amidst thy sorrow,

cast upon thy face.

Count thy stones. O Babylon,

you fumble ‘mongst the worms;

you heave your heart in twain;

you struggle ‘neath the weight that comes upon you,

hiding you forever,

cutting off your reign upon the earth.

Take another look around, and see.

See the walls, the rambling palisades.

The whitewashed temples, painted effigies;

gleaming houses hard against the sky.

See the edifices, the facades

erected by a people who has dared

apostatize. For by this sword of mine

on which rest multitudes—am I a child,

a dunce—a gull who might be hoodwinked,

outmaneuvered? Or will I not return

of conquest upon conquest, flush before

these forces steeped in horror?

Tell me—will that mob

defy the living God? Behold:

there is no succor, no retreat. I will—

I—those ragged vermin, shivering in dread—

I, clothed in limitless profusion,

mighty to avenge,

will render nothing—

cleave them soul from body,

gouge their roots,

and tear them from the earth.

Son of man,

take another look around. This place—

take a look around this place, and see.

Note the spires, the seven gates, the ramparts;

the multitude in arms, arrayed for war;

this city you will never see again.

‘Look at my commodity,’ he said to me.

‘Look into my hand. What do you see?

‘I’ll tell you.

‘You see invisible made visible.

‘The world made flesh, that it might here be pressed

‘into my flesh — convey its truth,

‘to one, to all,

‘of one, of all.’

He said. I rode away. Uncertain as to the cowing hills,

floods that wash away,

the lights above.

The dreadful specter of another god.

Single-minded Orb,

I cry to you from my humble ashes —

I mourn for all the world gone wrong —

I wonder in the solitude of night

if there will ever be an end.

Big-hearted beauty,

cause the earth to shatter;

let the land collapse into itself;

bring about the day

when every pillar, straight against the sky,

will bow itself beneath the autumn leaves

of earthen doom.

This I speak withal.