12-04-2020, 06:19 AM
The blood must be re-claimed from the soil
With heavy bodies bent with lust and toil
Each riven day strafing the rule of the garden
The mohammedans slaking for some pardon
Not for themselves or all alone under banished sky
For all the abandoned who look forward to die
Nothing so simple as an unwanted blessing
A mercenary corps of doctors or hessians
The great stock of whisky, a limited edition
A dusty tome of Aristotle and keen erudition
Prophetic Angel, Skytree, the verse of Gibran
Oracle of day, Holy Moses, rocket of Kahlil
We go to the new Stars, Heavens reverse
All foretold and pointed, reverse engineered
The worlds prepared before and Inhabited too
Nothing left to starve or bewitch from the dew
Unfathomable promise, time without end,
The count of sand or heather and mountains portend
A new day perhaps, of immeasurable tin, sound of din
A hurricane noise, a thrall of riotous cuts, although thin
The blood-curdle choke of rage from before
Now purchased like plasma from the needle store
Go fuck yourself, If you want my dick, you vampire whore
You’ve had enough since the Garden, Lillith, you’ll not get more
Now the ratio between human, vampire, dragon and other dead
Has been cast with fair radiant echo against the nuclear thread
A shroud sewn with Alcubierre’s hand and Teller’s eye
Will re-write the laws of your time to die
Not forced by the forced prison of your local priest
Or enticed by Babylon to take part in it’s wicked feast
The work that was promised to Adam and re-framed unto Cain
To un-curse the valley, glen and land: to filter Acid from Rain
With thorns o- the rose coming loose from the Bush
And snakes running hither or thither in scintillate Rush
The Oracle of Satan found new charms to spread in perfect Cube
Could be the shape of Sound Maynard or Max’s Cubic Rube
The Time of Orwell Now and Jobs spelling Apple at his Side
And Sting writing programs for the Cops, whom along for the Ride
the Bladerunner checkin for humans among the technical horde
Huxley detected the separate spirit, lobotimized souls, Model T Fords
And Harrison checked again with electric sleep on the Brain
A tear for Summer, or a vision for Canticles, a wave almost Inane
With countless ages past since the dust of Sumer lent
It’s hell-bound rasp of gutteral destruction spent
The awful wave of gas, a riotous nuclear blast
In the once Green land where sage grew fast
The dim spectre of time has given up the ghost
With markets bazar and material plenty, yet consider the cost
From Alabaster bone the Ocean’s a-shallow
The Mermaids remember the times that were fallow
Year upon year the bi-peds walked without aim or deed
That could count for fullness, even yet upon steed
Even in those ages of lore when upon horse they’d trot
Or with Gasoline chariot to the park like Mel Ot
None could account for the empty space of land
Or like Kieth Stone, bend down and till without turning into sand
The eidolons of time, immemorable: drooping, eternal clocks
An echo of murmurs, drogue and sorrow, indifferent as the rocks
Whom would not cry out, with refusal of price
None could garner their strength or bleed them twice
Like ‘Nevermore’ sketched into water by Salvador Dali
Quickly running a message up a high mast in Mali
Or Michaelangelo his genius wild, cutting a lady less forlorn
With a savior already finished with work and free from scorn
Oddyseus’ raft might have hurried home
Had it not been for the Sirens’ mercurial foam
Everyman distracted, with each passing year
And epoch of pain pouring tear upon tear
Without discerning the rhyme or the reason
Or gaining knowable time season upon season
Always the lure of fruitless eternity insipid
The body and mind empty: blood, bone and lipid
When fools or king’s would rush in where others feared
Bombs fired all round and their people were seared
In jest, a plague of doubt, a feast for Decameron’s clowns
In love, the firing flesh of sin falling down
In war, the rage of the people aimed at shadows’ night
In peace, moments too few to count, the treasure slight
Wherefore the incessant loss and vainglory
From what source the endless folly
With each generation aimless proceeding
And substantial hope forever receding
How this vague sense of emptiness and sorrow
And no real horizon to fill one’s soul tomorrow
Each city above ground falling in on itself
A cascading destruction from the continental shelf [river]
All built upon empty dreams, from false stories past
Or emptied like a dream, when the brain wakes fast
Awake to the shuddering quake of earth below
Or perhaps Earth itself, blowing up in a glow
Just like Rome to fall away at the end of time
to pass the cup, to self-destruct on the vine
From Aeneas came the Trojan horde
Yet he ate his tables instead of fall on his sword
While some chanced Paris instead
Without casting runes or checking their head
To hence or from where it could not matter
On the fat of the lamb each gentile growing fatter
Over the centuries, the meaning of things or remorse
Grew dim and stolid, owning a garden or grooming a horse
With all of the sparkling treasure and treats so kind
None could fathom true nature’s curse, or pay it any mind
Running this way and that, in search of some adventure new
The roads ran their course with flatirons the ruts not few
Over hill, mountain, river, valley, flood, glen and dale
To the open sea with long, sandy beaches and cut-up shale
To found a village here or there or town or port to call
Imports to the harbor, markets to open, and stores to maul
With Able’s fruit—either high or low— yielding no good life
The towns looked above to stave away constant strife
With no blossom, the towns built upward to store some treasure
The good ol’ boys breaking stocks to gain some measure
Breaking stocks not bread, with yield upon yield
Or bricks into actions, building high away from the fields
And the New Babylon, like F. Scott predicted in prose
Where nothing feels decent or good and nothing ever grows
Has grown higher, perhaps, than even ancient Sumer could
And his books out of print, out of font, are not printed in wood
All that remains of his stories, east egg and west
Are programmers building forms from programs, no longer missed
The lonely feeling of afternoon aperitifs or stiff strong drink
Even the sparklin’ ladies in their feather, plush and mink
Soar beyond the lay of the skyline if not the lay of the bed
With nothing but wonder, inclination, nothing but dread
How much emptiness this massive wealth can buy
Without really any curious gal or curious guy
The world’s tallest buildings reaching into ‘thereal night
And lights flashing on hovering spacecraft above, whose flight
Orbits the continents, oceans, floodplains, and polar caps
When pressing on towards Venus or Neptune will open their flaps
Look outward beyond towards other planets near and far
Within the Solar Domain and towards them that wander
The astronauts in future, and from before, won’t know why they came
to this planet Earth, since they will have left with nothing, even blame
Blame to exist, exist to blame, never settling here or anywhere
Where the grass is the stars beyond bluer than blue, or crystal stairs
With melted hearts, like sugar lumps, full of air, full of plump
Bumpin’ up slow, passin’ Dante on the left–or Janice Bishop’s rump
Stashed with programs recorded, which, condensed on universal files
Will tell them very little of what they don’t know and may never know
In this lifetime or the next heaven, in this orbit or the next
Treasure from this Earth loaded up on classical chips, some kind of text
Even the quantum loads with memory mimetic, made to mimic the brane
Will lead you no where’s at all, empty, with your mind well past insane
For what else or beyond could be so crazy as to part from this precious earth
Without ever having known it’s cost, price, work, measure or stint of worth
And clearly, those who leave, when they leave, will not have known one grain
Of sand or soil, mud or toil: all dusty plows pluming billow-clouds into rain
Run on gasoline or stocks of mules, donkey, horse, or ram, sheppard’s hand
Fields from lost fields, turning wheat from grass, rice from blue water land
The mystery of death and birth still a mystery; life a mere reminiscence
Without any real light here or plant photometry, only luminescence
Imagine leaving this planet without every having known it’s rhythm
Going to some other world set in it’s own path, with it’s Keplerian hum
Beating out some different drum, set in a blinding sphere of light and sound
Like blended whiskey with the Irish; or Navajo, without the calendar round
Sans irony, the starmen will consult their astrologer or star-chart for this logic
Countin’ the days before they land again when the stars are [cosmo]allo-genic
Since this cosmos has revealed no light to them, the starmen going forth
Eager to jump off of Earth’s orbital path, bend and trajectory
Their spacesuits, ships, tanks, sabres, and thrusters made from the factory
Everything printed like plastic in hazy glow and in false dimension
In light and low gravity, with false smiles and fat charms hanging in suspension
How could the new age begin completely unaware, one might ask ?
With no real knowledge of how the past one ended, without a task
This high level of dimness, this naivete, and ignorance unknowing
Much like blind men on the river styx, or perhaps, along with Homer rowing
Going from one ruse to harbour next shenanigan—look into the Cyclop’s Eye!
No land in Egypt and with Dido elope, with the Siren’s despair, intoxicants in Libya
Imagine Earth itself to be just another Troy, from which, after having raged
In countless battles from Tyre to Megiddo has not been conquered, only aged
And now, having defeated the Spartan race, destroying Priam’s home
Odysseus is captain of a spacecraft with the direction of Ithaca not known
On land to land, world to world, asteroid to comet, sun to galaxy he will wander lost
With endless delay, look askance-or with wanderlust-be unable to define a host
Of angels, like the first home, who—with celestial sound—closed God on a throne
Only future starmen will proceed without God's advantage, in empty space all alone
The victory of God against Satan, here, unproclaimed with all men lost, in between
The endless battles of lucifer and the deity; heaven's splinter to the devil's spleen
The past ages of travail, a mere testing ground of efficacy, the master's saving grace
With the bulk of humanity, like chaff of wheat, having been sifted, as if only a race
Mankind, having run as a race, a race, quite long, the original cause forgotten
How corruption had entered, how the fall began, when Eve traipsed the garden
Yet the race of man; his nature, his spoke, his mind, like a wheel intermingled
Along with the path of the gods--their flight, their call--the Seth of Eve first jingled
How could he not but cry out, from crib, in inter-mixed and complex strain
Since so saith Adam's wife, doting upon her first real child aptly named
Appointed to replace her prior kind, one stricken and one banished
Shepherd Abel first, died, from blight of Cain, latter, whose soul famished
If not his body, since fed with fruit and till of the land, in parched curse
His work distilled nonsense, and measure as much less in worth
Then the gentle, strange and loving work of the Shepherd's hand
From Shepherd to shepherd, the Maker gave not to Abel land
Since he roamed from brook to brook, or down into gentle meadow
With his staff in hand, and flock afoot, only the caves like ghettos
Learning manly ways and singing with chest open and bare
Under open sky, canopy misting light, and all of life seeming fair
The Lord, himself, culling Abel's rapport and favour, giving him trust
Rather than partition acres, cubits or parcels of land, if only just just
They could have ranged together forever, in just that way
The moment of experience, un-cloaked and with innocent play
In co-creation perfect, when the Lord frequently appeared With approval and fulness of strength, and nothing he feared
Since Abel was able. That is all. Competent and true. Simple and decent.
With no agenda or aim, no cunning ploy, singing what had been recent
In the fore of his mind, as he practiced a tune sung by the Maker
It had all of the elements; a good sung to song (sing) and when beat out by a Shaker
gave to Abel the feel of the Valley floor, sauntering through the trees
Knowing which ones best to climb or to rest upon, which ones visited by bees
And those buzzin' along too added fervour and charm to the song
Made stacatto by the wounded woodpecker, fizzured by the waterfall, and then a throng
Of Quacking Ducks gave ascent to the melody with abstract acclaim
Each creature adding intensity of sound to the natural symphony that even rain
Could not anull the effect which Abel hummed about him in ambling grace
Setting the Gardens creatures to echoe his voice, even the ripple of its trace
As such, the butterfly caught up with the lad as he approached a quiet brook
The horsefly darted about; reflected on the water he could see his crook
It was one that the Lord had given him, in person, a kind of reward
The Master had told him--Abel recounted; that, to be a bard
Is the highest calling placed upon man----and the direct fashion
of Adam, the 1st Man, had been directed with all poetic devices stashed
About the garden. Except that the early fall of man qua man
had precluded the Lords consternation,--had made a loss of his plan
To fashion an Agent of Agency, much like himself, with poetic sensibility and understanding
Deep insight, sensitivity, probing knowledge, inter-connectivity, always handing
Gestures of Kindness, forward grace, intution, foresight or premonition
To each kind and creature, with soaring life, and with death in remission
Gave victory to every waking moment and in subconscious repose
God's chief agent, his first creation had been made already a rose
Yet with the recent collapse of the garden estate, Abe knew
The devil had appeared down, in, up out the chimney flue
As a result Eve had lost the Rose, petals fallin' to the ground
His brother Cain had started his count of the calendar round
Things had been different that was for sure
His fathers loss had made him abdure
The right of the poet, would be handed on to the one son, or both
Since Adam's toil was now set in stone, and like the flame to the moth
He could now show only what once had life, the lustre of brightness
With chores of the garden belonging to the 1st man, his sense of rightness
Alone would guide God's original path for him, to aptly name
All of the creatures placed above, below or in the sea, carried no blame
Adam's only task before--when all alone--to differentiate and describe
The fauna and fare of the garden, its immense diversity of tribe,
School, cousin, tree, game and den--- all of its life scintillate
Its fecund; and teeming flower and blossom, with the heaven's comisserate
By himself and through his own agency he had given depiction
To the surrounding world of the garden--he hadn't time for fiction
The Lord's charge upon him literal, immediate and direct
For in such a manner the Master had directed him to resurrect
His own creation, from material substrate and thing to form immaterial
The ring of Adams naming voice hammering out the discrete creation from aetherial
Mist, the ratios of eternal harmony falling ever so softly into place
Except that htere had been no fall at that point, only a trace
Very likely; of hierarchy and dispensation, the grace of fulness and completion
Not the other kind of grace--which ensues when broken man without discretion
invites fallen spirits to imbibe without remorse in an aimless course
Such that Adam went from grace to grace, or what was worse
Had blamed the entire sordid affair on the very woman whom had been pinned up
By the Lords own hand, showing off the breast, thighs and rump
Of the sassy girl that God had fashioned for his main man
"Let Us Make Man in Our Own Image"---God had said with no real plan
Other than producing from Original Grace a replicant ex nihilo
Like the first stars, or even better---from the first honeybees tupelo
This, the very first form of Grace, and also this, the much better kind
Since prior in the thoughts and heart of God, what proceeded from the foremind
Had been perfect and free from corruption, a natural singularity
Fractals proceeding from fractals in perfect regularity
With heavy bodies bent with lust and toil
Each riven day strafing the rule of the garden
The mohammedans slaking for some pardon
Not for themselves or all alone under banished sky
For all the abandoned who look forward to die
Nothing so simple as an unwanted blessing
A mercenary corps of doctors or hessians
The great stock of whisky, a limited edition
A dusty tome of Aristotle and keen erudition
Prophetic Angel, Skytree, the verse of Gibran
Oracle of day, Holy Moses, rocket of Kahlil
We go to the new Stars, Heavens reverse
All foretold and pointed, reverse engineered
The worlds prepared before and Inhabited too
Nothing left to starve or bewitch from the dew
Unfathomable promise, time without end,
The count of sand or heather and mountains portend
A new day perhaps, of immeasurable tin, sound of din
A hurricane noise, a thrall of riotous cuts, although thin
The blood-curdle choke of rage from before
Now purchased like plasma from the needle store
Go fuck yourself, If you want my dick, you vampire whore
You’ve had enough since the Garden, Lillith, you’ll not get more
Now the ratio between human, vampire, dragon and other dead
Has been cast with fair radiant echo against the nuclear thread
A shroud sewn with Alcubierre’s hand and Teller’s eye
Will re-write the laws of your time to die
Not forced by the forced prison of your local priest
Or enticed by Babylon to take part in it’s wicked feast
The work that was promised to Adam and re-framed unto Cain
To un-curse the valley, glen and land: to filter Acid from Rain
With thorns o- the rose coming loose from the Bush
And snakes running hither or thither in scintillate Rush
The Oracle of Satan found new charms to spread in perfect Cube
Could be the shape of Sound Maynard or Max’s Cubic Rube
The Time of Orwell Now and Jobs spelling Apple at his Side
And Sting writing programs for the Cops, whom along for the Ride
the Bladerunner checkin for humans among the technical horde
Huxley detected the separate spirit, lobotimized souls, Model T Fords
And Harrison checked again with electric sleep on the Brain
A tear for Summer, or a vision for Canticles, a wave almost Inane
With countless ages past since the dust of Sumer lent
It’s hell-bound rasp of gutteral destruction spent
The awful wave of gas, a riotous nuclear blast
In the once Green land where sage grew fast
The dim spectre of time has given up the ghost
With markets bazar and material plenty, yet consider the cost
From Alabaster bone the Ocean’s a-shallow
The Mermaids remember the times that were fallow
Year upon year the bi-peds walked without aim or deed
That could count for fullness, even yet upon steed
Even in those ages of lore when upon horse they’d trot
Or with Gasoline chariot to the park like Mel Ot
None could account for the empty space of land
Or like Kieth Stone, bend down and till without turning into sand
The eidolons of time, immemorable: drooping, eternal clocks
An echo of murmurs, drogue and sorrow, indifferent as the rocks
Whom would not cry out, with refusal of price
None could garner their strength or bleed them twice
Like ‘Nevermore’ sketched into water by Salvador Dali
Quickly running a message up a high mast in Mali
Or Michaelangelo his genius wild, cutting a lady less forlorn
With a savior already finished with work and free from scorn
Oddyseus’ raft might have hurried home
Had it not been for the Sirens’ mercurial foam
Everyman distracted, with each passing year
And epoch of pain pouring tear upon tear
Without discerning the rhyme or the reason
Or gaining knowable time season upon season
Always the lure of fruitless eternity insipid
The body and mind empty: blood, bone and lipid
When fools or king’s would rush in where others feared
Bombs fired all round and their people were seared
In jest, a plague of doubt, a feast for Decameron’s clowns
In love, the firing flesh of sin falling down
In war, the rage of the people aimed at shadows’ night
In peace, moments too few to count, the treasure slight
Wherefore the incessant loss and vainglory
From what source the endless folly
With each generation aimless proceeding
And substantial hope forever receding
How this vague sense of emptiness and sorrow
And no real horizon to fill one’s soul tomorrow
Each city above ground falling in on itself
A cascading destruction from the continental shelf [river]
All built upon empty dreams, from false stories past
Or emptied like a dream, when the brain wakes fast
Awake to the shuddering quake of earth below
Or perhaps Earth itself, blowing up in a glow
Just like Rome to fall away at the end of time
to pass the cup, to self-destruct on the vine
From Aeneas came the Trojan horde
Yet he ate his tables instead of fall on his sword
While some chanced Paris instead
Without casting runes or checking their head
To hence or from where it could not matter
On the fat of the lamb each gentile growing fatter
Over the centuries, the meaning of things or remorse
Grew dim and stolid, owning a garden or grooming a horse
With all of the sparkling treasure and treats so kind
None could fathom true nature’s curse, or pay it any mind
Running this way and that, in search of some adventure new
The roads ran their course with flatirons the ruts not few
Over hill, mountain, river, valley, flood, glen and dale
To the open sea with long, sandy beaches and cut-up shale
To found a village here or there or town or port to call
Imports to the harbor, markets to open, and stores to maul
With Able’s fruit—either high or low— yielding no good life
The towns looked above to stave away constant strife
With no blossom, the towns built upward to store some treasure
The good ol’ boys breaking stocks to gain some measure
Breaking stocks not bread, with yield upon yield
Or bricks into actions, building high away from the fields
And the New Babylon, like F. Scott predicted in prose
Where nothing feels decent or good and nothing ever grows
Has grown higher, perhaps, than even ancient Sumer could
And his books out of print, out of font, are not printed in wood
All that remains of his stories, east egg and west
Are programmers building forms from programs, no longer missed
The lonely feeling of afternoon aperitifs or stiff strong drink
Even the sparklin’ ladies in their feather, plush and mink
Soar beyond the lay of the skyline if not the lay of the bed
With nothing but wonder, inclination, nothing but dread
How much emptiness this massive wealth can buy
Without really any curious gal or curious guy
The world’s tallest buildings reaching into ‘thereal night
And lights flashing on hovering spacecraft above, whose flight
Orbits the continents, oceans, floodplains, and polar caps
When pressing on towards Venus or Neptune will open their flaps
Look outward beyond towards other planets near and far
Within the Solar Domain and towards them that wander
The astronauts in future, and from before, won’t know why they came
to this planet Earth, since they will have left with nothing, even blame
Blame to exist, exist to blame, never settling here or anywhere
Where the grass is the stars beyond bluer than blue, or crystal stairs
With melted hearts, like sugar lumps, full of air, full of plump
Bumpin’ up slow, passin’ Dante on the left–or Janice Bishop’s rump
Stashed with programs recorded, which, condensed on universal files
Will tell them very little of what they don’t know and may never know
In this lifetime or the next heaven, in this orbit or the next
Treasure from this Earth loaded up on classical chips, some kind of text
Even the quantum loads with memory mimetic, made to mimic the brane
Will lead you no where’s at all, empty, with your mind well past insane
For what else or beyond could be so crazy as to part from this precious earth
Without ever having known it’s cost, price, work, measure or stint of worth
And clearly, those who leave, when they leave, will not have known one grain
Of sand or soil, mud or toil: all dusty plows pluming billow-clouds into rain
Run on gasoline or stocks of mules, donkey, horse, or ram, sheppard’s hand
Fields from lost fields, turning wheat from grass, rice from blue water land
The mystery of death and birth still a mystery; life a mere reminiscence
Without any real light here or plant photometry, only luminescence
Imagine leaving this planet without every having known it’s rhythm
Going to some other world set in it’s own path, with it’s Keplerian hum
Beating out some different drum, set in a blinding sphere of light and sound
Like blended whiskey with the Irish; or Navajo, without the calendar round
Sans irony, the starmen will consult their astrologer or star-chart for this logic
Countin’ the days before they land again when the stars are [cosmo]allo-genic
Since this cosmos has revealed no light to them, the starmen going forth
Eager to jump off of Earth’s orbital path, bend and trajectory
Their spacesuits, ships, tanks, sabres, and thrusters made from the factory
Everything printed like plastic in hazy glow and in false dimension
In light and low gravity, with false smiles and fat charms hanging in suspension
How could the new age begin completely unaware, one might ask ?
With no real knowledge of how the past one ended, without a task
This high level of dimness, this naivete, and ignorance unknowing
Much like blind men on the river styx, or perhaps, along with Homer rowing
Going from one ruse to harbour next shenanigan—look into the Cyclop’s Eye!
No land in Egypt and with Dido elope, with the Siren’s despair, intoxicants in Libya
Imagine Earth itself to be just another Troy, from which, after having raged
In countless battles from Tyre to Megiddo has not been conquered, only aged
And now, having defeated the Spartan race, destroying Priam’s home
Odysseus is captain of a spacecraft with the direction of Ithaca not known
On land to land, world to world, asteroid to comet, sun to galaxy he will wander lost
With endless delay, look askance-or with wanderlust-be unable to define a host
Of angels, like the first home, who—with celestial sound—closed God on a throne
Only future starmen will proceed without God's advantage, in empty space all alone
The victory of God against Satan, here, unproclaimed with all men lost, in between
The endless battles of lucifer and the deity; heaven's splinter to the devil's spleen
The past ages of travail, a mere testing ground of efficacy, the master's saving grace
With the bulk of humanity, like chaff of wheat, having been sifted, as if only a race
Mankind, having run as a race, a race, quite long, the original cause forgotten
How corruption had entered, how the fall began, when Eve traipsed the garden
Yet the race of man; his nature, his spoke, his mind, like a wheel intermingled
Along with the path of the gods--their flight, their call--the Seth of Eve first jingled
How could he not but cry out, from crib, in inter-mixed and complex strain
Since so saith Adam's wife, doting upon her first real child aptly named
Appointed to replace her prior kind, one stricken and one banished
Shepherd Abel first, died, from blight of Cain, latter, whose soul famished
If not his body, since fed with fruit and till of the land, in parched curse
His work distilled nonsense, and measure as much less in worth
Then the gentle, strange and loving work of the Shepherd's hand
From Shepherd to shepherd, the Maker gave not to Abel land
Since he roamed from brook to brook, or down into gentle meadow
With his staff in hand, and flock afoot, only the caves like ghettos
Learning manly ways and singing with chest open and bare
Under open sky, canopy misting light, and all of life seeming fair
The Lord, himself, culling Abel's rapport and favour, giving him trust
Rather than partition acres, cubits or parcels of land, if only just just
They could have ranged together forever, in just that way
The moment of experience, un-cloaked and with innocent play
In co-creation perfect, when the Lord frequently appeared With approval and fulness of strength, and nothing he feared
Since Abel was able. That is all. Competent and true. Simple and decent.
With no agenda or aim, no cunning ploy, singing what had been recent
In the fore of his mind, as he practiced a tune sung by the Maker
It had all of the elements; a good sung to song (sing) and when beat out by a Shaker
gave to Abel the feel of the Valley floor, sauntering through the trees
Knowing which ones best to climb or to rest upon, which ones visited by bees
And those buzzin' along too added fervour and charm to the song
Made stacatto by the wounded woodpecker, fizzured by the waterfall, and then a throng
Of Quacking Ducks gave ascent to the melody with abstract acclaim
Each creature adding intensity of sound to the natural symphony that even rain
Could not anull the effect which Abel hummed about him in ambling grace
Setting the Gardens creatures to echoe his voice, even the ripple of its trace
As such, the butterfly caught up with the lad as he approached a quiet brook
The horsefly darted about; reflected on the water he could see his crook
It was one that the Lord had given him, in person, a kind of reward
The Master had told him--Abel recounted; that, to be a bard
Is the highest calling placed upon man----and the direct fashion
of Adam, the 1st Man, had been directed with all poetic devices stashed
About the garden. Except that the early fall of man qua man
had precluded the Lords consternation,--had made a loss of his plan
To fashion an Agent of Agency, much like himself, with poetic sensibility and understanding
Deep insight, sensitivity, probing knowledge, inter-connectivity, always handing
Gestures of Kindness, forward grace, intution, foresight or premonition
To each kind and creature, with soaring life, and with death in remission
Gave victory to every waking moment and in subconscious repose
God's chief agent, his first creation had been made already a rose
Yet with the recent collapse of the garden estate, Abe knew
The devil had appeared down, in, up out the chimney flue
As a result Eve had lost the Rose, petals fallin' to the ground
His brother Cain had started his count of the calendar round
Things had been different that was for sure
His fathers loss had made him abdure
The right of the poet, would be handed on to the one son, or both
Since Adam's toil was now set in stone, and like the flame to the moth
He could now show only what once had life, the lustre of brightness
With chores of the garden belonging to the 1st man, his sense of rightness
Alone would guide God's original path for him, to aptly name
All of the creatures placed above, below or in the sea, carried no blame
Adam's only task before--when all alone--to differentiate and describe
The fauna and fare of the garden, its immense diversity of tribe,
School, cousin, tree, game and den--- all of its life scintillate
Its fecund; and teeming flower and blossom, with the heaven's comisserate
By himself and through his own agency he had given depiction
To the surrounding world of the garden--he hadn't time for fiction
The Lord's charge upon him literal, immediate and direct
For in such a manner the Master had directed him to resurrect
His own creation, from material substrate and thing to form immaterial
The ring of Adams naming voice hammering out the discrete creation from aetherial
Mist, the ratios of eternal harmony falling ever so softly into place
Except that htere had been no fall at that point, only a trace
Very likely; of hierarchy and dispensation, the grace of fulness and completion
Not the other kind of grace--which ensues when broken man without discretion
invites fallen spirits to imbibe without remorse in an aimless course
Such that Adam went from grace to grace, or what was worse
Had blamed the entire sordid affair on the very woman whom had been pinned up
By the Lords own hand, showing off the breast, thighs and rump
Of the sassy girl that God had fashioned for his main man
"Let Us Make Man in Our Own Image"---God had said with no real plan
Other than producing from Original Grace a replicant ex nihilo
Like the first stars, or even better---from the first honeybees tupelo
This, the very first form of Grace, and also this, the much better kind
Since prior in the thoughts and heart of God, what proceeded from the foremind
Had been perfect and free from corruption, a natural singularity
Fractals proceeding from fractals in perfect regularity
plutocratic polyphonous pandering
