Sixth Canto

The promontory under my feet shudders

as my brush hits a reverberating stroke

on my diaphanous canvas of fate while

the golden steel controls all past

and future height and depth

of tender life and its

hardest rigidity as the bottom line

rises to a penultimate

element of importance nothing

stands in front of it no one will

stem its future flow nothing

will ever stand as an impediment

to dark eyes and their thoughts

inventing as if gifted from heaven the

first ever organized corporation under

patronage of the teenage church

devising means and plans for

conquering the cosmos through

sharpness of the double ax or

sword or sulfur

of the bomb conventional or atomic

phosphorescence, fear

schemes world-over

like a bread slice buttered by

movement of the knife in

gluttony’s tenacious hand

covering inside and out of

power lust appetite

for pleasure through darkness

tingling pockets of masters grasping

for purer rarer more as wheat fields

ask the finest question when the cicadas

and I answer from the olive grove:

we can do better