The Fire Sermon in Glen Campbell

La ilaha ilallah, he created
the shadows to prostrate
and then the sun as a proof.
-The Distinction

Today it is Spicer,
today it is him, and the big idea.
Yesterday it was El Bishop.
It doesn't really matter
willingly or unwillingly
they will remember,
they will come to resurrections
once and again and pleading.

O the moon shone bright on Mrs. Porter
And on her daughter
They wash their feet in soda water


Doesn't matter because
Firon was just a guy
full of asphalt and camphor,
insurgency is all there is
right now, all of the cold
wind trying to find it,
heading for the doors
and banging on the window.
Where are you?
says the wind
through the trees
who have caught on now
and take off their clothes
like chapmen
before the fire saying:

"you are too old
to do that again"
or, "you'll be sorry"


The trees know about
the shivers, they've read
all of the blankets
before the rain,
cover to cover,
even the shroud of Turin.

"These tempestes of the ayer
(which the Grecians caule Tiphones ...)
they caule furacanes."

Up in the pecan,
an ugly bird utters
the most beautiful small sound,
maybe he's talking about
the sea, about the parting.
I think he sings
the Song of Solomon,
Perhaps he can recall.
Hard to believe a throat
could make that noise,
eye to eye, up there,
not moving or alone, we are in
his tree now
until darkness tries
it's luck again. Time to go
home, time to flee
and take it all
into nests for the night
seasons where wind
splinters and talk
has little value
because the gale
gusts and swallows
anyway and the sleepers
constantly turn and still
listen to the fingertips
of the trees
as they tuck and snap
time into sound.
Outside the dog is growling
at the pig who comes his way
while on guard for the master.
At the fence they see each other,
they just don't budge
or press together, no
volume and infinite density.
All teeth and legs and odors
for one exceptional moment,
each abdicates their position,
runs away and eventually,
falls asleep either full or empty.
Truth be told,
the land is consumed
not by men or children,
all children of Sky Gods
by now, all kids
with hope and buckets

and all that time to do it

Little stones appear
and disappear,
the heaps of rock
tell atoms to history,
brave old legends about
sorrows and steam,
the story where space
and iron are heaven's
midden and leaven.
Galveston oh Galveston!

However the ocean takes
more than seems fair,
her own share -
nothing wrong with that,
but the skirts
of her dresses,
blue ones, green ones,
oily black ones made of taftah
bounce and like that,
swish and blow
the currents of her
arrival before the door
is open, long after it is closed.