by Wim Coleman
Part II: Psalms of You
© by Wim Coleman, 2011
All rights reserved.
is the mantra of mantras
the talisman word
is the text of the mass
not to be uttered backward
for that is the way of hate
is the space between voices
the measure of that space
the bridge across
is the blade that severs
the needle and thread that mend
the gasp of delight
I shall dance naked in the passages
to the sound of timbrels
heard by only you and me,
turn cartwheels on the crosswalk
at three o’clock a.m.,
and know that you have made me
just a little lower than the angels
and given me dominion
over intersecting streets;
even as the phosphorescent vapor
rises from the pavement
and as the dormant cop car
watches quiet disbelieving
and as the lead gray box behind me
clicks its tongue and buzzes at my back
and as that quick and luminous red
pupil dilates with rage
I shall not fear
for I am fed with music:
I am satisfied.
you vanished in my moment of direst faith,
lifting your stone anchor out of my bowels,
leaving me well and whole in my unbelief.
just when I knew that you are not and never were,
do you burden me again with that horror of great darkness
which has no name but love?
the sun itself splits wide with pain
as searing as the marigold petals
that light the way home for the dead out of Sheol.
To seven of you I say—
sing this psalm to seven more among you
that you may sing to seven times seven more
and seven times seven times seven times seven
until the promised beginning;
for the all-creating end is past,
while the all-obliterating start awaits.
Sing with a tongue dipped in indelible dye
and sound the word in abiding vibration
upon the drumhead of papyrus or wood pulp
so that all may hear these yet-uncomposed words.
If you try to break this chain
(which you cannot even if you may)
you will tighten it to your discomfort;
lengthen it that you may dance in your disintegration.
In the end
there was no word.
Sing this psalm
so that in the beginning
the word shall be written.
Yea, to seven of you I sing,
although there is no I to sing,
but only the riddling you.
My rage at you
is like a wasp I watched
oh so long ago
hurling its heavy abdomen
time and time again
against the hot ceiling light bulb
as steaming venom fell
to the cold basement floor.