Upon
Revisiting the Birthplace of the Preacher
Billy Sunday
1.
If I have sinned, the rain
falls more blackly
On the corn fields, the river crests and
floods
And the sparrow tucks under
a wet wing
I must have believed it once when I came
Here to be hidden behind the
treatment
Plant before the dealerships bought up all
The bottomland except this
far corner
When you are sixteen maybe seventeen
Your monstrous sins distort
the universe
You make the rain to fall you give your
loved
Ones cancer and foul the community
With the powerful poison of your deeds
When I have sinned the rain
falls more coldly
Even wet the acorns clack as they fall
From the yellow branches to
the pavement
Stained with the tannins of half a century
Maybe more some shed some
crib or storehouse
Stood here sheltering equipment records
Against the horde of winter
sweeping down
From Canada and there's the rusted ruin
Of the old car a Buick I think
where
I crawled with my canteen and notebook
To list the details of my
sad slow days
Though it's hard to see under the sumac
And huckleberries and saplings
pushing
Through the rotted seats and sticking out
through
The broken windows what a
mess of blood--
Root and cockleburrs I kick through it
Crunching acorns looking for
the old marks
I get down there and gather a handful
Of the hard stuff and the
moldy black stuff
The pure humility the smell of home
2.
I drag my bag of sins behind
me pale
Ones the rotten crabs and dark ones the
burned
Wings heavy heavier every
year--
But I'm too selfish to give them away
The little dears and the scary
mothers
Drag my bag through the city where I live
Picking up sins at the farmers'
market
Where I murder the sour disgusting old
Women licking the radishes
picking
Up sins on the boulevard as I crack
The grimy fingers held out
for a buck
Gathering sins while I'm rolling on the
floor
Of the Largo chewing the waitresses'
Skirts like a dog toss them all in my bag
And stagger on through the
beautiful world
Leaving a trail of black oil behind me
3.
I'm lazy lazy all day and
the next
I've hardly shaken off the night's dander
Before it's time to lean into
the arms
Of afternoon the years have hung the weight
Of luxury on me I can't bear
it
Here I am trying to live again with--
Out all the fat all the cheesy
richness
O stupid youth rooted in the wind I
Know now why I sat on those
hard pews when
All I believed in was sliced beef on rye
And a girl's new hips flaring
in the grass
And I know now why I went the long way
Through snow or stood in the
rain on the steps
Of the library for hours I know why
My head ached with algebra
and why I
Hungered for the sight of ice-hung branches
But refused to let my dreams
inform me
After all of these years I now know why
I used to walk through these
fields on my knees
These very ones the sun was a hammer
And the soybeans bred clouds
of biting gnats
All summer the weed crews crept down the
rows
One mile down one mile back
then rest for ten
Minutes to clean the dirt out of our shoes
Bugs climbed in our eyes sweat left salty
tracks
On our foreheads our tongues stuck to our
teeth
I loved the pain in my shoulders
and feet
The clearness of it the reasons
for it
The sunburn and the exhaustion the thirst
Even feeling the chemicals
burning
Our lungs even knowing that we lost
A little of our lives to the
harvest
Even if it offered nothing but hope
I loved the plainness and
the mean labor
At sundown we staggered back to the bus
No one said a word about tomorrow
But all night long we rested at the breast
Of comfort lying in our hammocks
in
The crickety air in the fine moonlight
4.
There's hardly anyone alive
today
Who remembers the wide use of manure
The smell of it on the fields
or the smell
Of dung in the towns who knows what coffee
Smelled like at Wilshire &
Vermont at eight
O'clock in the morning one-hundred years
Ago hardly anyone remembers
The smell of the canvas tabernacles
Or the fresh sawdust on the
floors to damp
The penitent bootheel and what about
The smell of kerosene which
no one knows
Anymore and the smell of castile soap
The smell of the Bronze Age
the goats and figs
Or the smell of Gettysburg with its ten
Thousand rotting horses and
smoking trees
There's no one alive who knows the smell
of
Teepees by the Mississippi
River
And no one who knows the smell of my own
History except me the smell
of the bed
The smell beneath the juniper the smell
Of pears of frog-water the
smell inside
A trombone case and of the gray paint on
The bleachers the smell of
wet newspaper
That belongs to only one life
among
The many and keeps the gate of memory
Open the smell of the first
day of it
Of a ditch of a wet red dog the mud
5.
Kneeling knees soaked ankles
soaked hair dripping
I shake with the cold but not only that
Out here in the weeds in the
greasy rain
Out here in the presbyterian autumn
Pouring down its dark flumes
of clouds and flocks
Of migratory fowl let the wind blow through
My bones and hollow me out
like a shell
Tear down my pride and hide me in the grave
Of your love dear God
I
don't want to live
Another day without your fingers wrapped
Around my heart save me from
selfishness
Let me vanish into my own history
6.
The fat-lipped ghost is resting
his head on
My shoulder and muttering in my ear
He's squeezing my neck and
poking my ribs
With his big hands he keeps insisting that
I understand about acorns
he thinks
There is a lesson listen he
mutters
I know you don't like me--he spits it out
I don't like you--you don't
have to like me
To learn to serve to let a squirrel plant
You in the cold muck to be
a kernel
Cut from the tree you don't have to like
it
The squirrel does not call
to service the mole
Does not call to service neither crop nor
Weed neither cloud nor swarm-nothing
calls to
Service but the need to serve as I am
Myself when I spit into your
ear you
Will be yourself in giving everything
To the world it does not matter
that you
Lose your goddamn sins you know this is
true
7.
Over the dealerships the floodlights
bloom
Whitely and a tractor-trailer gears up
The incline on the highway
into town
All across this Midwest the sober psalm
Of October repeats in the
mouths of
Crows and the whispering grass winter
Has begun draining the blood
from the land
But autumn doesn't know to end its song
Return repent rejoice I listen
with
A silver ear the squirrel coughs the mole
sighs
A red blade of sunlight slices
along
The horizon I'm invaded by sky.
At
Griffith Observatory, Los Angeles
1.
The cable of the pendulum
A plumb-line dropped into a pit
Around the edge of wooden
pins
The orb describes our daily turn
The thing's all swing steadily
ticking
The velocities of the hours
To rise and fall and rise
again
Through the stillness of the middle
It makes an unmodern motion
Around the mind this measurement
Of our descending nights and
days---
Days and nights not yet as lonely
As they will be nor circumscribed
By summer sky and winter fields
(That is memory and false
hope)
But nonetheless descending like
A spiral clockwise round a
drain
To the single empty moment
2.
Christiaan Huygens ill bored
observed
The pendulums of two small clocks
Which set closely on the mantel
Through subtle movements in the air
Imperceptible vibrations
Exchanged along their common ground
Began to swing symmetrically
And symmetrically swinging paced
The rhythm of the room tuning
The watcher's mind to new notions
Of ways to measure out the
days
Than sun moon and stars had offered
In their complex Ptolemaic
Pinwheeling through remote heavens
Many measures set together
Each honoring the others like
The players in an orchestra
Honoring a mutual time
3.
The principle that beats the
heart
Inspires the breath and stimulates
The tongue to speech is that
which makes
Cicadas hum in matched pulses
Of stricken sound and irritates
The muscles into forming gaits
(The gazelle's pronk the
elephant's
Thumping procedure and the spring--
Taut leaping of the wallaby).
The fine expression of the parts
The cooperative nature
Of body-ness reflects a world
Unseen and unbelieved until
Without two minds to mind to it
And though beliefs evolve
from grace
To grace through Newton Babbage Bohr
And Mandelbrot whose instruments
Were made to measure the music
Of the mathematical sky
The coupling of the sun and moon
Still breeds a sense of passage
and
In the greyhound's graceful canter
Or the quick flash of pigeon
wings
Quick eyes find meaningful movement
4.
One afternoon I watched a
moth
Maneuvering through the first drops
Of rain in and out of danger,
Until her wingtip caught a drop
And she plunged to the black
cement
Maybe you have known the feeling
As a stranger in town or drunk
And carefully aware of steps
The feeling of seeing clearly
Not clearly that keeps you moving
Constantly constantly aware
What I will see this next moment
Cannot be seen without those
things
I saw only moments ago
What I will know I will not
know
Without the things that I have known
The pleasure in a woman's
breath
Against the neck is the pleasure
Of the orange peel's sting
and the green
Light of the palmetto in June
5.
On the riverbanks of Thailand
And Malaysia dense instinctual
Congregations of fireflies
swarm
Through branches in the darkening air
At the sunlight's last moment
one
Begins to blink then a second
A third and fourth take up
the cues
The click of little lantern lights
From those a blue distance
away
And match their tilt and timing
To the phosphoring frequency
Joined now by thousands turning round
The center of gathering light
Until as night draws deeper out
Of the random massive flashing
Comes unison a scintillant
Advertisement like stars against
The screen of night--strange synchrony
6.
A fountain clock of cesium
Keeps time in Colorado from
A tiny globe of element
Tossed through mirrors and laser light
An atomic scintillation
More perfect than the greater globe
On whose authority does dawn
Begin or workdays end? The crow's?
The thundering sky's? Or is
it
As in early China but one
Prerogative of rulership
To declare the hour as long as
Desire would have it? Could
it be
The hummingbird caught in the midst
Of the frantic stillness of
flight,
Weaving the future from the rags
Of unremembered yesterdays?
-- As published in The
Alembic, Spring 2002
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