Santería

Apr15

Ogun owed Oxun for the fee he paid
to divorce Yemayá in the watery deep.
Babalu Aye‘s messenger delayed
(no rum in the bargain; price too steep)
until San Martín, divine caballero
deceived the third wife of el Indio Guerrero.

(Obatala‘s beats got lost in transit
the rhythm robbed by macumba-bandit.)

Eleguá cleared paths for He Who Opens Pores.
Black roosters smoked puros at midnight. Outdoors,
Santa Muerte was asked to turn down the noise
so Nana Buluku could get some sleep.

As she gathered Ashé, reduced to a heap
of Yoruba fool’s gold anointed with blood
Oduduwa pretended he understood;
but his mother-in-law knew he never would
until Olódùmarè returned from the feast
having sacrificed roosters while facing east.

The santero drew me a pictogram
to protect me from forces my poem conjured
but the blood of a sacrificed perfect lamb
affords more protection, I knew. He wondered.

dessin vaudou 1

Arcana VII

Apr14

I drove a chariot for Egypt’s dead gods,
obeyed decrees of an angry Pharaoh.
Vision widens where hope seems to narrow
as coral crusts the rims and axle-rods.
Submerged upon the sands my army’s host;
Erythrean currents their secrets keep.
The waters gave way, drowned me in the deep
while God led you forth toward your promised coast.
There was no choice for me, the charioteer.
A tyrant sent me forth to hunt you down;
pursuing you, I thought your end was near.
In the descent, I lost my star and crown.
My lord was false, while yours continues strong . . .
I rise from depths to further you along.

Charioteer3 Charioteer2

Godless Bluegrass

Apr13

You want the high lonesome brought down to earth—
the value of gold, devoid of its worth.

Like herbless reggae, or atheist Bach
like love without romance and time with no clock—

it’s smokeless jazz without the snap
buried treasure without any map.

It’s Andean flutes without the coca
Moon with no shine—ni vida, ni loca . . .

You can’t have your culture without the Gospel
like rain without water, it’s simply impossible.

You can’t keep the tree without having roots
or gather a harvest without the fruits.

So get the hell gone with your atheist bluegrass
lest someone imply you’re an unsaved jackass . . .

Welsh Revival

Apr12

Dylan Thomas, drunk-ass poet,
uncorked nouns, imbibed the verb;
downed six pints and thought about it
sitting unsteadily on the curb.

Winds of word unleashed in drink
filled to the full the poet’s sails . . .
although it tottered on the brink,
his drunken boat defied the gales.

Floating on wreckage to distant shores,
our boozy bard beheld the deep;
where whales spout forth their lyric stores
while the inebriate muses weep.

This postwar lush and lyrical fad,
was the biggest pint in the bar called Wales.
While not the worst, his verse was bad…
(but better after seven ales).