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.
 

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