Beheaded, Again

establishing an image
of the skull who speaks truth
that disembodied head
who might tell me what might be mine
the fantastic and the secret
the ways to fortune
or health or sexual conquest

1. the slestak (slee stack) talk
to the illuminated
skulls of their ancestors
who are thought to know more
of the workings of reality
than the current population

2. the knights templar, tortured by the king of france
and the pope, in the name of the inquisition, claimed
their instructions came from disembodied heads
in metal caskets in secret rooms at their monasteries

admittedly they also talked about their anuses,
such is the nature of torture
but still the magic of the maltese falcon
begins to seep through these words

3. there was a mexican horror movie
featuring the severed head of a 16th
century magician, part of cortez group
who stole the golden mayan face
a rancher's son dug him up and the head
spoke to him saying
I will make you happy
but you must be mine

4. and in an ash tree in my dream
the head sat upon the limb
and spoke in aphorisms
and she called to me from the celts
and told me I knew a woman
loved a woman who had the power

and under her pillow the blood appeared
never an explanation
never a narrative voice
but I didn't care
I chose the magic
because the supernatural implies
hope

5. so the talking skull in knoepfle's poem
is the father and the son but it is also
the ghost of my self
and cannot walk away
it only creates specious solutions

the priestess married her disappearance
I do not sleep well
I do not trust my solutions
I am an anagram of the nation this way

we have become disembodied
we have lost our genitals and our assholes
we have no breath nor blood nor bile
nor anything that connects us to the earth
our thoughts flicker on the cave wall

A return trip, prompted by the coming hollywood flic based on the Sid and Marty Kroft show, Land of the Lost, which was a favorite of mine in the 70s/80s, whenever it was on. I loved the insect peoples reliance on the skulls of their ancestors. These skulls glowed and talked to them. Later on I read about the Knights Templars confessions in Holy Blood Holy Grail, the source book for the DaVinci Code.

And John Knoepfle had a disembodied heads riff that ran right through his poetry. I once thought I'd write a monograph on the subject, but that got away from me, and now all that is a mild memory. The specific poem referred to is entitled "An Affair of Culture". I see in the latest Illinois Times that Knoepf has yet another book coming out. Well, he's what 85? Still tossing the lines off. I'm sure there is plenty worthwhile there, including lots of stuff he stole from me and from other students.

I note that I always thought the rock band, the Talking Heads were really kind of overrated. David Byrne was like so many professors I knew, happy with his own intellectual coolness, whether it added up to anything or not. Still, Fear of Music was a great album. This is a re-post with numerous changes of a poem I put in the blog three years ago. Beginning to repeat myself and getting a little murky. Just call me Marge N. O'Error.

Born Twice

Orson Welles Picking His Nose:
"Who shall we eat today?"

The boy
wore his coveralls, covering up
the instant possibility of an endgame.
His fevered selfishness disguising
moments of mendacity as a fey
tic. On the widdershins of this seamless
life came that ship of days; a buttload
to be precise. & suddenly out of the
beaded player arose Orson Welles
with an eye on a blonde or two and
a persimonious rap, waiting to be
absorbed by the dark sorceress.

How many days do thusly pass?
Enough to anchor the seamy memory
of what was that girl's name again?
Heidi and her father who denied him.
While we watched bad television,
smoking endless amounts of cannabis
on Pat's dime, no doubt. & Our Boy
consoled himself with thousands $
electrical toys and books and records
beyond a normal appetite.

Mata Hari, she styled herself, joked
about his "Toy." She, not quite right
herself, ran the silver insult like a
stream of honey down the days. No
escape, like Shelob, she removed
what juice she liked, and handed him
over to the bookstore girl. Not as
kindness, but as placeholder. Dark
lady she reached over to his old friend
and gave it a little tug. & that & a
perk or two took care of that. Left
him in a similar cave on Lowell

with a wife & stepchild
& ever closer to the widening
gate that had once closed
before him.

photos man! beowulfian friend!
co-owner of the red star! amazement
at the spiral of the hours! see you
in its contemplation! You who
were once so close! You who
kept track of your single shrimps,
afraid of being cheated! You
who taped all the movies on SLP
so no one's eyes were undamaged!
you are the last edition of your family now
no fourths in sight
nothing in the record, a fug's discography
the story about eating an infant in the uk
passing passing passing

slouching off down the road to the underworld
not persephone no, but
a monster, coveralls muddy
and ripped. hands empty after
so many seasons, taking nothing