All the Way Back

In the gloriously common places
where cities can’t compete with the galaxy
for light at night the old sit with the young
and tune in like radios trying each band
of luminous message blues into greens
visual vibrations and subtle sounds
from today and all the way back
the absorbant young side by side
with saturated seniors open to verses
sung and sent by nature’s mother upon
mother.

At the airy age of flying forth
later than some earlier than others
I needed to know that I was through
with hanging onto the sprouts of spuds
with tuning my antennae to the claptrap
with giving too much attention to lingering
leftovers of echoes to clones of habits
from today and all the way back
to listeners before me and in my bones
to seers carving my words into stones
all of them slaves to dense pyramids
full of holes taken to be magically
maternal.

When I needed to know what I knew
I heard my father up in the clouds
his was the first voice propping up
my mimicking grumbles broken odes
on a ski lift half way up to the top
the second and the last voice in a long
chain of mumbling through the prophets
from today and all the way back
to the demigod tempter and further
before the Bible was just a glimmer
in the eye of the man who deposed
the mother.

Each star they say is larger
than the next and more childlike than
the previous in the galactic rankings
through which the Kaa and Baa flicker
on the way from dark days here
up through the two feet the three knees
the steady waist the waving elbows
the slim and dependent neck and head
of the tetra-family-man Aton
of the obedient sons of Helaman
of the ten-pointed model of man
of the Qabbalistic tower of power
at the waystation at the horizon
at the cusp of atmosphereless wave
inside the womb.

There on the ski lift I opened my empty
mouth to see what would come out
it sounded like Dad but I knew better
whatever is now comes out of the elder
and I focused to see behind and beyond
what pushed the push of the mush
my wondering way from up above
one seat higher one tower ahead
over the ridge to the unseen bowl
ascending slowly steeply into mist
of mother.

Eye extended by hard listening
ear reaching further than heaven
I heard in the voice of my father’s
father and his Swedish and Danish
hammering immigrant imaginations
from today and all the way back
I heard and saw simultaneously
first Jesus, then Lucifer, then Allah
then El the metal-beater and awe-ful
spear-threatener bellowing at
his mother.

And the mother of the holy black
incomparable to star in shape
in form or function front or back
she wrapped me in vibrant blanket
she wrapped my father in firm arms
she swaddled John the many Johns
from little to large along the ladder
from dirt to word to philosophical
extermination of all the distinctions
that make me me and my kids
apart from me and my time and place
apart from hers and I was lifted
skis dangling hands clinging
face joining the fields of deep white
broken by deep evergreen
all the way back being
the skin and the eyes
of mother.

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About mrsorenson

all over the place
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