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    glossolaliaspeaking in tongues

    poems by

    Ned Hayes

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    glossolaia: speaking in tongues

    copyright 2008, 2009 by Ned Hayespublished by Orchard House Press

    ISBN 978-1-59092-587-4First edition February 2009

    9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2Design by Blue Artisans Design.Cover photograph by Ned Hayes.

    Cover background image by Estella Del Sol.All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any

    form whatsoever, except in the case of short excerpts for use inreviews of the book.

    For information about film, reprint or other subsidiary rights, contact:

    [email protected] House Press is an independent press dedicated to publishing timeless, fearless

    books and games across all genres. The orchard and house logo is a trademark of Orchard

    House Press.Orchard House Press

    7419 Ebbert Drive Southeast

    Port Orchard, Washington 98367www.OrchardHousePress.com

    360-769-7174 phLibrary of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data available.

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    What kind of a beast wouldturn its life into words?

    Adrienne Rich

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    table of contents

    gloss (on title)

    acknowledgements

    PART I: LONE

    prophecy.

    transfiguration.

    the dead shall rise.advice.

    later.

    places.

    For Orpheus, returning.

    river.

    finally.

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    PART II: LOVE

    covenant.birth bed.our first child.in the vein.time.mystery.a parable.savor.my language.your language.

    waking in time.fight.betrayal.

    window dream of my wife, I.standing dream of my wife, II.moving dream of my wife, III.

    long time dream of my wife, IV.game.together.what you know.loves.

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    PART III: LOST

    Calling the Angel of Song (from Book I)

    The Fall of Satan (Book II)

    At the Gates of Chaos: Hells Guards (Book II)

    God Speaks (from Book III)

    A Lady, A Lie (from Book IX)

    After the Fall (from Book XII)

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    gloss

    glossolalia: the act of speaking in tongues,variously believed by those who partake in this

    ecstatic experience to be 1) an expression oftruth in languages not known to the speaker,

    2) the language of angels, or 3) evidence ofdemonic possession. Researchers believe

    that in fact, glossolalia is not any human tongue,living or dead, but is a faade or

    simulacrum of language.

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    acknowledgements

    Many thanks to the Reader's Edge Bookshop Poetry Readings inMontrose, California, for renewed inspiration. The listenings,readings, and encouragement of Tim Parker, Chris McGrath andCharles McCrone were also invaluable.

    Thanks also to Jamie O'Halloran, of the ChupaRosa Poets, for the Richepigraph, and to Bruce Beasley for his inspiring example.

    Grateful acknowledgement is made to the following journals andanthologies, which first published some of the poems in this volume.Ten of these poems have previously appeared, in somewhat differentform, in these publications:

    transfiguration. The Mid-American ReviewFor Orpheus, Returning. Twig 2.4Advice to a writer. Amelia Magazinedivination. Slipstream 1.3Persephone elopes. Twig 2.7For Doug Dykstra. Lost CreekTo My Old House. ScriptPraying with one eye open. Seattle Theology

    and Ministry Review 5

    in the vein. Simul: Anthology of Poetrysacrament. Twig 2.2 and in Twig 2008

    Best of Twig Anthology

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    PART I: LONE

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    prophecy.

    echoing the futuretowards us, reverberating

    sounding in our bodies

    the tremble

    felt far off, ever by grey dawnnever distinguished by daylightfading even then in the distance

    losing itself in a silence

    we were unaware of til now.

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    transfiguration.

    White men's bodies turn green under the billows of the seaI have been told so; when the young are dragged from the tidetheir lips have melted into a delicate slash of emerald.

    Black bodies turn blue in the brinenone of the longshoremen here notice, there are too manydead;in Jamaica or Barbados it is rarer. There, the heavy pictishtingeis obvious -- their friends, dark and strangely indigo, foundamong the flood of tourist caucasian suicides.

    There is a color women's bodies turnthe change is as oblique as the departure of the soul

    when our flesh takes on the scent of waves,our skin tone melds away.

    But no one has ever noticed the change of shade;these corpses often float for years.

    then, sometimes, they return to shore, marry, take up jobs orcleanhouse, have children, laugh and talk. I am walkingaround still, tasting of ocean, undetected.

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    the dead shall rise.

    dug myself out of the tidespattered coastline,

    down here, where the oystershellshinge themselvesopen and close,

    open and close.

    a tingling pulse comes,underthe throb of the sea's vast flesh

    it calls meand I knownowit is hardto come into livingagainafter yearscovered in barnacle waves

    I took the deep into memelted self into sea

    yet now,to be born ?

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    advice.(to a writer: remember, some old boats never sail.)

    rough ideas restold leaves on the dock

    of a harmless sailingport. They sift into mulch

    where, sometimes, iffortunate, staggering after dark

    in the champagne dusk, yourtrailing fingers leave a seed

    where mizzen mast grows:sister of basil, or sage, but

    hard to find the dish toflavor. if sprinkled, the threads

    are strong, intoxicating. Tooconfused a taste for some. Don't

    touch the rough wood dock then;even glances tend to wilt the leaves,

    somehow. You wouldn't think it wouldand conversation shivers the curved

    tendrils of growth to pieces; you mightbe left with ragged fibers, if you're young.

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    It takes another night like the time yourlover stroked you to tumescence on the

    kitchen table and you had to leave forSunday School luncheon. Or a morning

    time of gasp, looking through timbers of adead dock for lost keys, in a rush, when you have

    nearly forgotten the mizzen. Then the bowsprit.Almost unnoticeable; if your eyes are empty

    the spar will never keen the shrill soft soundholding tight in a moment when

    you may least afford it. But it must be noticed.And the silent keys may not want finding, so

    why not? I won't tell any signs. Omens maybe.wind might be kissing you. The air could be

    from Guadeloupe, so sweet it is close torotten. Do elderly Spanish senras brew it,

    feeding the pot with holy water and somethingineffable? Or does a small girl wearing a red

    shift with blue hat, discover its taste on her finger,and wonder where it fell from? sometimes

    there is not the air. There is nothing; a spoken caress.

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    later.

    (after Robert Bly)

    I have enjoyedwriting, at a deskall day long.

    later, a friend and Igo for a walkto see who

    can leavethe most

    behind

    but we sail only underthe white blossomson the trees

    and a pale moon that lurksin the day sky.

    gone too farwe turnand cut across the windfor home.

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    places.

    places i have been with my handsthat i would not takea body, and places dredgedso full in violation or ecstasythat consciousness would breakthe surface

    with this curling symmetryof letter i have turned to divedry, into root-torn ruinsplumbed depths of hunger, searchedfor my own hopeful anger andlost all that my knowledge knows

    there are limits to such explorationonly words enable the craft, andalways the boatstream loses way,evaporating when i feel the sharp shallowtinge of edges and mystery; then i am

    marooned on dusty land, tonguedrawn up, a crow's parched wingto the top of my mouth wherethe teeth tighten. i want more:a feast of syllables to explainthese things, the places my handshave gone to, of their own accord.

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    For Orpheus, returning.

    There's wheat where he's dead walkingMy grandfather, solid as dust or mist billowing upOver the shimmering grain, lingering heavy

    As evening over the empty Dakota sand hillsHe's looking for something: the dead always are

    Called out by this dream, he drifted to the old farmOver the dropping dusk. He waits, as the field furrowsLengthen into rifts of shadow and dim lustre.

    Watching him linger in the depths of my sleep, I thinkThe stories were true, that some soul might sink down into iceSinging so that the song, breaking through our chests, outOur mouths, brings to light all the oceans

    We've swallowed, silted thick and dark

    For in the dark times there will also be singingA wind of singing that slices out between the starsCarving passages for us to follow after the last noiseThe last breath, the last story (but one)

    O, you who brought the dead up singing,You who swept the rivers into flooding soundLovely lying story, O you, clutching a tremblingDying lyre as the trees fainted down living around.

    After a scatology of fallen lover's names, you comeTo where we are adorning and perfuming a city

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    Of corpses for a stinking second-hand grave

    There are so few who really die any moreWe pass from numbness to unconsciousness with asLittle change as the wink of some forgotten eye.

    Yet you come, you, a story, a remembered idolOnly true

    Why have you sung, and what passions shallThe living depart to listen to you? What tears canRemain in a place of flickering shadow and shade?

    Unremembered, something told to me in dreamsEchoes back with a sound like wings on sand.

    For I've found you alone, long sunken in silenceBrushing your withered lips against the throatOf a lute, loosing these notes to spill outStories, old as the sea itself, and young, fresh asThe boy's body crouched tight in the deer-copseLodged here against stones and beech saplings, drifting,Brush branches wrapped thick as fingers around him,

    Too young to know how he moved slow on broken bonesLike salmon towards a dry river run,Or why there are not more faces beside him

    In the dawn, where he waits for the deep still woods to stirWaits among the desolate dead, waits for the singing to rise.

    There are a few souls dragged crazy across the years

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    The rest have dripped away,

    water through our fingers

    Children: the bleak earth's brightestthe first to perish

    the last to drown in timeand first to be bound back to life

    when the notes trickle through the trees

    Notes that no one hears nowBut washers of feet and wording children

    and shuddering fools like you

    The badlands are creased like old flesh where your ghostwanders,Stealing into the silence where walls hold no paintingsanymoreNo Quetozacaotal to inspire, no Michael gripping Satan's hair.

    In this time, the revelled whisper of a voice stirsThe choke of a swallow catching in the mouth,

    Leaving a scent on thetips of the blades

    of our tonguesBurning like cinnamon

    Bitter as the peel of an orange

    The low quick tones echo across the skyLips fluttering out a spray of notes

    Frantic as gusts on the white leavesOf water in the harbor of night.

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    river.

    white frost an inch thick on our morning dock:two feet above the winter water.

    deep in mounting fog, one hears the nestling ducks,an echo of reeds in tide, ever rising.

    sound sinks away with the watery air at dusk.cool fire licks the mist, this silent whispering wick.

    across seas, many fingers set the death-boatsfloating down the Yangtzeflaming and winking for the souls of my ancestors.

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    after the viewing.

    Snow touches each house withthe blankness of ash

    Each buildingisolated

    in the eddies and the rushing flowthat strike and glance here,

    there,indiscriminate, leaving us behind.

    We cannot hold asoul long

    before we must give it away;the weight of it bends us,

    breaks us.

    Yet we keep wanting more,even as we give it away,

    departing before we have arrived.

    In winter, the treesin this town

    appear one by one along the silent streets,each branch crowned with frozen air.

    The oaks and birches have abandoned leaves,and broken out, budded,

    in a shock of white.

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    Elegy, for Doug Dykstra.

    (died October 1989, Alaska, age fourteen)

    Like woken beasts we staggered awkward through the snowYou might have cried, the strain showing in your cheekbones andbig eyes, when we prayed over your mother But you might havewatched the ropes lowering the first coffin and wondered

    The right side of yours was heavier; we faltered underwooden weightHad you piled gold coins as loot under the lid, or chosen secretstones to hide there, stolen from Matanuska salmon runs?Maybe the good shoes were too tight or the boy scoutmedals superfluous and

    you laid them against the side to wait till you could getout and test thesnow with bare feet I think you took a perversepleasure in the boxslipping, one corner on the rope, while we stood there,sweating andpulling, our feet cold in the sludge and frosted loamBut all you wanted wasto be down, like the time you jumped from theSlackmeyer's Big Pine and

    broke your little toe, in spite of the ladder

    You were looking up at the circle of faces, shouting"yes, yes" when the clodsof earth were finally tossed to fall wet and dark and

    wonderful dirt against the snow,

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    covering two white boxes in moist loose earth

    You love the smell ofroots and wild things underneath the ground unfrozennow many months later,and you are cupping the wriggling earthworms and thecurious beetles in

    your hand and hoping they will try to escape (you cancatch them then)

    You're exploring the light cool dirt and whistling thesap into the grass bladesand struggling flowers and never before done by a boy climbing pine treesfrom the inside

    Nothing good is quiet in the spring and you are listening to thebrambles and stretching out to hold the rustle of thistles thatcan stinga dog's nose The smell of full fresh underground is rich,like that oldmine shaft we found at Keewatin or the dug-out with thelog ceiling where

    you slept alone all summer while we were inside the houseYou'd walk incovered with dew and pine needles in the morning

    And I still expect youto come in and tell your sister "look what I found while I

    was buried!" andhold up yellow knucklebones all on a string with an old

    watch still ticking,your treasure, like gold unearthed in a wood box as thepirate lights dim out.

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    The Conversation.

    When I had come to that place of knowing that I had onlyThe surge and ebb of lust, the hollow need for others,I live between unknowns and strive to know less.

    Why then, do I wish to possess something beyondThe world we know, something beyond myself?

    A fond hope born of imagination and endurance.

    The large movements of my wants crashing, bludgeoningUnseen, like some dark beast through empty rooms below,Marking the shades of things with the lick and spittle of poetry:

    Corrugated rainwater steaming on the alligator backs ofstreets,Leaping statues from mist and moonlight sifting in, comfort

    And laughter in a dog's face, petals on cold boughs.

    We look for such an end in time of great fragility. In the crushOf soldiers dying I hold hard to new boots, old soap, thingsMerely to hold, not great or less by knowing, of nothing a sign.

    I stand away, keeping things apart, separating the small things:Shoes and clocks, mops and pails, faces and figures unimbued

    With fiction or with prophecy. One must have the grace to stepaside,

    To turn away from fate. These things make my life distinct: thesound ofSnails, the twist of real thread, a taste of basil. An intricate curl

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    In vines becomes exact. A rasping of tires and the fibrousstrength

    Of wood; the movements of a whippoorwill, the turn of key inlock.

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    wording.

    The slow settling of a house with someone elses dried bits ofMemory still inside. Life eating itself is what they said of myCancer. It seems my cells found their own lives so much moreInteresting than mine. Even as I breathe, as I speak, theyturned

    Away, watching their own patterns grow. Now your mouthmovesThe riffs and swells echoing, rocks in the current above myGrave, an underwater blur. The lick and plunge of words

    becomeA physical act without a touch, something created between us.

    Your laving coolness covers the sounds of clocks ticking,plantsMoving, even my cells growing. The languorous notes waverin light,Leeching cold stinging labials into my ears, formingsomethingEternal from the raw tongue, palette, epiglottis, the virgin airflowing

    Warm as blood. You are attempting an exorcism of flesh, abruisingInvocation, a baptism in dialogue, drowning me in harshfricatives

    And vowels, a falling to risk, to best anything doctors maygive. For it isDangerous cutting throat into voice, suckling breath; we knownothing

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    Except what has been given us by the past. A life is dissolvedin everySound we utter, and we speak the history of those who forcedmeaningFrom animal thought formless and void. We make a riverfrom the past,Mouthing here those sounds unremembered, except wherethe soul

    Beats. I close my eyes and know their thought in mine, themetastasizingOf one self into other. We taste my undead breath, thrashingmySouls blood into a froth of meaning, the tide into a foam ofletters,Making every drop count for more than this syllable, thisstroke.

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    praying with one eye open.

    (after Mark Strand)

    through dark windows,the clouds move like

    one thinks a birdmight, old ghost

    caught by light,scattered feathersfracturedsnow.

    on this morning, Pentecost,tremors of brass

    burst the air

    yet my eyesare closed, I amstill

    as the Christwho sleeps on crosseseverywhere, that

    dead thing nowand ever.

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    yetdoes some flame stilllip this shore,rousing

    all the mingled massof tongues

    and what wind unscentedby decaylicks through this space?

    what fires flit stillover us

    sleeping and wakingenthralled by a divine demonunto grace?

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    sacrament

    If I am to fall in loveWith the world, despite time

    Despite each holocaust, despiteEvery child who starves with a pleaIn their eyes, despite everyFaltering pulse, despite everyUnanswered prayer

    I must love each momentIm denied love, each slow turnIn which I draw nearer to death

    If I am to fall in love with the worldI must be willing to loveEvery spot and tear in the fabricEvery wind that shakes my door

    For the world would not be wholeWithout my love, and withoutThese agonies, without the knots

    And rips that take the breath from my lungs

    I must love what gives me strengthWhat makes me less than wholeFor only then am I part of this worldThis stained and spotted sacrificeBloody, and tattered and full of glory

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    I must learn to love

    What gives me weight in the streamOf this life

    I know I movesometimes for joy andsometimes for terror, yet

    If I am to fall in loveWith the world, it must beIn spite of my fearOr because of it:

    With all my fear held outIn my hands, like my soul

    At the moment of a kissDragged out from the placesI have hidden it, where it isSmall and unnamable

    If I am to fall in love with the worldI must be willing to name itTo name every particle of beingEvery second of existence, every grainThat I trod upon, every tree that touches

    My life, name them all like a fountainAllowing each name to spill overInto the water of time, leaving a scentSomething ineffable, sweet, thatRushes away before I can hold it

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    And I must be willing to fallThus, my own self

    Into the water

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    to my old house: a home in april

    (forVic Bobb)

    "it shall be you," whisperwhen the smallest sproutsshow there is no deathin my frozen earth"it shall be you."

    not forgotten are the blue nosesof the carpenters,how they scouted at my greenness --

    planting roots in the cruel monthbuilding haphazard on my memorytracking mire with boots,

    bricks cracked, boards warped,wiring shriveled and rustinglike old lilac bulbs.

    "it shall be you:" whatmay be won from ahard season?

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    fall away.

    i.

    I lose myself every autumnand it takes me all the long months

    between, scrambling and scraping

    in the crusted frost and drifted misplaced leavesto try and regain some of what was left behindin that headlong rush towards height and danger,endurance, oblivion and our last desired movement

    before winter. there is a moment, in awful fire,when all the sensitive points on our nervesare seared away, and pain ceases. moments,dim seconds to the rush of death. and in that

    compressed time, there is the greater rush of desire.even in that last fatal moment, beyond all sensethere is the wanting to do forever what we hadlast hoped to do on earth. burned to death,

    young men fall and rise and step, and fall again.losing all of what they had, shard by burning sharduntil the only life that remains is that wind of desire.

    ii.

    more than a little of me is lost each winterand less returns every springautumn is my time, for I come into it

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    saited, complete, everything that was the yearstuffed into my maw, my eyes full and open,knowing I have in me something strong enough to be killed.in the fall, I come with some part of me to die.

    it is reassuring knowing that the season and Iwill fight this battle, and that I will always losenot really knowing who I may be, or what strength haspassed from my self in the bed of winter, until it is allover, and I can remember that last violent spasmof some birthing angel wrenching my hip with a curse.

    iii.

    the still-born months pass outand I can begin to gather those scattered piecesthat were a self, again.

    it takes time, this gathering of the burst fragments,flung wide, like mortar shells that don't want to be found.I hate seeing the hills grow green and more green throughthe warming days, the cruel Aprils, the growing March.the fecundity of it all is choking while I am stillputting shards together, unable or unwilling to placemy own roots, thinking there must besomething more inside this half-made absent form,

    something lost in the mist of the fall before,hidden in the crevices of vanished glaciers andcool water that has suddenly been eaten by rootsand must be dug out, exhumed like bones that growinto a graveyard oak tree. It is a hard struggling, this

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    wrestle for something that is always over the extra edgein a place I can't really know but in shadows and dreams.

    finally, I am satisfied with the dream of who I am,with the self I have pieced from that which was killed andbroken,comfortable with this new stranger I must grow to love.He becomes familar, this solidifying ghost, a person who wasnot,and is no longer cleansed away by any penetrating snows.

    iv.

    in such comfort, the days lengthen and give me time tofind. solstices have come and gone, so that I can feel theknowledge of my phoenix-self wax and grow. but the sounds

    change, so that I begin to fear the beauties of fire and ice.it becomes harder to hold strands together, harder to

    weave the figure I want across the long loom of hours.

    in these slow dusks, the knowledge plunges into methat the dun light of this season means my self soon

    will shiver to a moon's faint sliver and shatter endlesslyin consuming flame, like the stars that spread

    bright, hard and hidden as crystal, ungraspable, acrossa late autumn sky, in the first days of winter.

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    where the freeways run you home.

    (from a story for C & T)

    She woke in Los Angeles to the sunlightand the airy sound of the birdsin the trees below them.

    Years later, she would remember this.

    On foggy mornings, she and he were floatingAway from the light and the city,the sounds of the birds in the jacaranda trees carrying themaway.

    The skyline and the trees emerged, distinct and unreal,shapes in a dream, and she returned to bed andtrailed her fingers along his back until he awoke.

    She did not always recall the love-making,even after their first child was conceived from such a time,

    but she remembered always the birds.

    At a tourist antique shop on Sunset Strip she boughtpostcards: 1950s pictures of early skyscrapers etched asstencils above an earthbound town.

    She would have been lost in that place where swimmers poiseddemurely, startled against the movie lot freshness ofa brand-new, elegant Santa Monica Pier.

    At night, she linked their small intimacies to the tasteof sea-salt, and the lights that spread out at dusk, ocean

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    phosphorous on an endless concrete wave.

    In late afternoon, the rush of cars promised her everythingbeyond all bounds and she gasped in the blue of summer sky,silted with fine white and gray ash.

    Slowing once, she glimpsed one house ina circle of porchlight, hanging static among the manyfor less than a moment, a tricycle caught like a minature.

    how much the lives of the people living there could mean!there was a sinking inside her that had the harsh taste ofdespair.

    They still wrestled together, as if to prove to each othersomething unnamable and harsh, but she did not know herdespair would take a long time to pass.

    She stood in the morning, under the water, and closed her eyes,thinking she could not get rid of him, and watched cars movepast the mouth of a tunnel underwater.

    Late at night, she heard him stirin the warm space left by her absence on the bed.In darkness, waves of slow rain rushed near her,passed, and returned.

    At full light the pigeons camefrom apartments blocks away, specksin the eye of the gray dawn, circling in their myriaddozens towards her swooping suddenly above herhead in a rush of shadows, out of the deluge.

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    when did you last come here.

    when did you last comehere, to the minute battles

    that reverberate down thedays and months

    the ties that bind to breaking.when last, except in dreams

    half-waking, holding, hittingin that close embrace.

    I was hostage in an open field,four around me, no escape

    no weapons, yet I woulddie in this similitude place

    and cried out in my sleepwaking my wife, waking all

    asking when last did you comewith me to this tight

    closed place, a linkage ofsorrows? in the heart

    there are more liesthan any truth

    those we cannot see, undeniableunwilled to know. that place

    we want in ourselves alwayscaught in a dying light

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    just as we might be almostupon its movement

    there is scarcely timeto step back

    throbbing, missing, knowingyou have cut and been cut

    struggling as a boxerstruggles for consciousness,

    not thinking of weightor vision, but the simple

    shades: light, darkness,memory.

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    this season.

    this season, the poetsclutter up the doorways

    dry, cracked and worn,scuttering and curling.

    it is an old placeI've come to, somewhere expiring

    out its thick cold air, holdingwhat little it has left in a

    watercolor blur: vague folds of earth,writhing trees, tendoning these clouds.

    the endcreeps into my building

    lightly, skipping along the hallwaymissing every other brick.

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    new year.

    Rosh Hashanah comesthis year

    on a day of cool wind,

    a breathtakingportent of winter

    taking the world, rude lovertossing

    the sheets away.

    in autumnthe sadness of all things

    is greatestfor now

    the world was created.

    the new fruit, shot throughwith decay:

    birthed in the samemoment,

    the racing seed andthe worm.

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    tobacco-stained Viennese sermons

    no druids on mountaintops herebut old Jung, awake,

    scratching lurid symbols

    my bloodstill

    believesthe trees have faces

    andwine is full

    of lost demons.

    beware,the ghost of the collective unconscious stalks about

    seeking whom it may devour.

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    persephone elopes.

    as the dark broke

    she heard, out at the end, howthe language would burnand cover with frost

    before the lid went onagain

    thus daycrept outon brinks and borders:

    and that other the one first cousin to Cerberus

    night,left crown and cross

    behind, eloped for her:

    of coursewe wouldnt stand for it

    we made duskdawn too,traitors, manning the traps

    the fugitives evaded allon foot, no doubt

    she with the faint asphodel

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    like ash across her hairand he, night carrying a facestreaked and stippledas by strange bright tears.

    yet we knewwhen firstthose virgin cheeks tasted

    sick sorrowthe worm would turn,andeventuallytheyd plea-bargain

    hewould not wantdayafter all,to know of

    the steaming pitsthe horror

    that waitfor night to returnto his labors,

    would he?

    damn the gods hes got to come back (the dead are piling up at Acheron

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    divination.

    the sign of endingin each grain of flour, each star, each leaf of tea,

    and in the streaks of blood, the number of bodies lying wetwithout.

    the sign of what we had left behind, willingly.the sign of the loss of all things.

    the sign of a woman cryingand laughing and flinging her arms out

    birds flying in patterns overheadand leaves against a wall, still.

    the sign of regret and of redemption.touching our days likehoney filling an intricate comb,drop by drop by drop.

    the sign of time, vast brushstrokecoming across a watercolor world.

    the sign of what I have forgotten, unwillingly.the sign, blank, of a place I have never seenand never will see before death.

    the sign of a rowboat, and a fool.the sign of a storm breaking, hurricane, winds, lashing rain.in the eye of that terror, someone rowing ever onward,

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    untouched by striking lines and sheets of rain, unknowing,safe.

    the sign of giving.the sign of taking away.

    the sign of the world disappearing,winking out atom by atom

    so that the children's blocks in the cornerdisappear one by one

    unnoticed until half the ball is gone and thenthe other half, and then

    a piece of my leg and part of a lamp, a wordfrom a letter, whole;

    the last page of a good novel, the middle of a tie,the branch of a tree, and

    three-quarters of the squirrel still runningalong the wire, oblivious;

    a glass of milk and, like snapping dirt off theend of a moving curtain,

    a third of a flock of milling birds, rising inflight, unchanged by their loss.

    the sign of a stammering man.the sign of laughter, and candles being lit.the scent of a meal simmering over a slow fire.the sign of a child falling into a father's arms.the sign of beginning.

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    finally.

    finally there arevery windy days

    when almost everypiece of strength

    is cast in doubt andturned against you

    but no despairthat came

    first, a weightundeniable

    squalling childhanging alwaysfrom your throat

    out of yousustained by youoverwhelming in coercion

    in between, a few monthsone knows life forever

    rain rattles and stutterssofter in cadence and

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    you cannot know(should not) thatthis measure will ever

    be turned against you.

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    PART II: LOVE

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    covenant.

    there is a mountain that cuts youas you climb it

    a tearing worldto strip our desires to the quick

    and plant our hearts in open space:it is only here we root and grow.

    no other ground is wateredwith such wounds,

    yet nonehas such soil and such sky

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    birth bed.(for Jill)

    hand trails out of surf,twitching, grasping, sucking sanddown around the trembling

    flesh, into my hole,

    gapingwet mouthof a grave, a wombin the sandcastle land.

    i am safe here, whisper now,through razorback lips

    coral has formed memade sea-urchin havens

    down between hipbonesa starfish restscontracting in stillnessagain and again

    tasting bloodin the particled water

    la mere swallowed me

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    there is nothing in her that isnot part of me now...

    she is a sea anemone writhingwith color, about to wrest lifefrom this tide.

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    our first child.

    I am watching a childgrowevery hair that curlsunrulyon her head morepreciousto me than miles of sand atNormandy

    where waves lapped away men'slives

    her head ducks, furtivesmallhiding in the trees.

    she hides, andsomethingin mesinks rootsdeepinto thesky.

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    in the vein.

    your absence hissesin my mouth

    a stone on the lips.

    youve seeped out of me, an intoxicationof memory, bitter as the peel of an orange,sharp as a curl of cinnamon skin,

    I know it like a poisonin the vein

    it moves through me, thismissing of you, a slow shudder

    something distant andunknowable comes close,

    underground, where I post no sentries,keep no code-breakers,where I am blind.

    in the morning youhave moved darker through

    me, and I know allthat I canbring into this room

    is not enoughto fill it.

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    time.

    listen with my eyes closed in the half-light

    for the rustle and scrape of your passingeach moment to you could be hours, days, centuriesall of it sucked out by you, insatiable, to the marrow

    we swim in your passing, out deep, into something untouchable

    time, sweet will your way, brought gasping up by a God whofilled the empty vastness with the movement of your breath:

    the quick flitting milli-seconds, and the oldest split

    I can't find the verge of your skin, sensuous and smoothone hour carrying the seed of another, birthing ever

    you take away even as you give, circling your wings

    the world decays a little with each breath you take

    look at you, sharpening the point of a momentshards of mortality littering the space in-discriminate, loving all, the only way you can

    a certain violence in the joy with which the world spins.

    angels dance through each cool second,demons whirling the globe in flames:every dying voice begging you for more

    let go, let go, lovely liar, young time.

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    mystery.

    Every warm mangeryields a cold grave,

    Every firegoes to ashes

    So it is a walkingmystery that I love

    you

    Enigmawrapped up in headlungs, hot beating heart

    Blood, bone, air, waterbound by some ancientfire no one understands

    Keeping things together,long enough for me to

    feel that roiling massmaking real the placeI love you in.

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    a parable.

    i. into the new world

    before I left the other side for my mothers wombthey gave me tools, complex and beautiful.each one pressed into my unformed hands, givena place in my soul, so that I might use them whenthe time came, years from now, when I had forgotten

    where I came from.

    the true things were given us, the essence of whatit meant to be: the real that could keep growing inus even after we landed in the country of concreteand hatred, mosquitoes and nuclear bombs.

    they labored, millennia, making such things of beautyeach one distinct, the essence of some gift we weakhumans lost years ago, each time hoping somehow,this time, the right soul would hold it tight, keep italive until land fall.

    we never kept what they gave us, of course, eachone lost, over and over again. we forgot, and letthem drift out of our fingers, out of our hearts,until there was no way for any of us to remember

    where we came from. except sometimes, early inthe mornings, when the blue hour comes, you cansee the souls falling out of the sky, each one openingtheir hands, letting go of what had come from theother place, forgetting everything from the pastas they come into the new world.

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    ii. into the day

    in the blue hour, dawn fogging the roombetween dream and life, its possible to recall,what was once held tight by your hands.

    I turn to you breathingwarm beside me. your face isturned away from here, turned away towards somethingineffable. and I wonder, only then, what they gave

    you to hold tight in the moments before you werelaunched, like some sacred missile, through thestars, towards me.

    savor.

    I lick out the corners of yousavor every crevice

    cupping your communion,a bowlfull of the pulse of blood

    the bird of my tonugenestling into the wet

    breathy bath ofwhere we all come from

    closing my eyes, it is darkscuttering waves of orangesand cinammon hide, cardamonfilling my mouth

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    as if I have plunged my handsdeep under the earth, and

    brought out pleasurefor the first time, again

    and out on this edge there isthat sound that tells me weare close to falling

    a kitten mewling throughyour mouth, yes, oh, yes,coming home to feelmy breath on you.

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    my language.

    born into the rituals of fences,land and acreage, engines & drive-shafts

    words with no human connection

    my heritage a years long dialogue about the play oflight through the branches of a tree on the edge of the meadowthe fall of rain on a section of water, an open ditch, and

    the place where the ground breaks open, a gully

    always, my uncles and fathers talk carefully of changeknowing the land has been that way for generationsand the fall of soil will be much the sameeven after we are long since part of it

    yet we fear they will change under our touch

    it is a peculiarly male language when we speak of these thingswe are really speaking of those places we love most

    we speak, obliquely, as darkness falls, in early eveningover a few beers, the football, a scatter of cigarettes

    as the bare light above us whirls and buzzes with insectsof making our own small space,our own circumscribed heaven.

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    your language.

    something comes out of youwhen you speak

    a glowing thing, a visionthat attaches itself to anothers voice

    until the two of you, womenare enmeshed in a web of conversation

    the words enfolding youin the glory of knowledge

    effacement, partition, transition,

    birth and love

    the secret knowledge that you laboredto make your own.

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    the space under the trees where I stood in delightis under pale stars now and the flat swells of shade.it is quiet and what was told there?

    through time waning paper-thin, my feetmove to the kitchen in a whisper.the drink is a hush on the throat.

    I lie down again and feelmy lungs filling slowly with water or with wine,my eyes filling with that second death to come.

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    fight.

    after hard crying, I amholding you

    I haven't the words

    for you, here at the end of the day

    why do I lie nowholding you, knowingnothing could make me

    further away from your

    power, your sobbing

    there is no lieI can telllike the truth.

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    betrayal.

    holding a white hair up in this lightis just as good as holding a black.all washed in the same sordid gray,

    a wrecked flotsam of cloud in the sky,lead waves under a sullen wind,a jerked hank of an old corpses hair,

    something Ive found floating on the swamp of emotion,a sump of ashen rot.

    fear keeps me going now, a swift and ravenousthing, eating with a rip in my stomachlarge enough to kill me.

    a tear, out of which pours the marrowof my self, seeps every thing Iveever wanted to hide, every secretIve ever kept, every moment Ivenot wanted to live.

    nothing that I swallow now seems

    to satisfy, burning with that quicksear of tequila,

    perhaps its always been there, crashing,bludgeoning unseen, like some dark beastthrough empty rooms below.

    shine such light even onan ink black thing, you can seethe soft spots of color in his pelt, aleopard light, like some comic catcome home to sleep the night off.

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    window. (the dream of my wife I)

    seeing a small woman,in bride white

    running strangely

    across the parking lot

    then looking back to theroom where you were

    talking and afterwards shewas only a moth dragging

    slowly across the misty window.

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    standing. (the dream of my wife II)

    when my second wife wentmad, she said nothing

    and I did not know hermadness until we had been

    married for many yearsand all the accumulated

    stuff of life had grownup around us like some

    tendrilous plant entangling

    the feelings of my self

    with her silence. I didnot want to leave, but

    eventually I was sayingnothing also and the sky

    is empty in this dream.I stand among pilings

    of dusty possessions holdingup a cloudy dock and my

    eyes sail far intothe sky, leaving me.

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    moving. (the dream of my wife III)

    when I woke, I wasalone. alone: I did

    not have any wivesand I walked quiet

    through a house of stoneand wood and scent

    and felt my self movewithin my body and knew

    the curving of my belly

    and the touching of my

    feet. and when astorm came to love

    me I would turnaway from its caresses

    and feel myself waking slow,

    a long still dream.

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    long time. (the dream of my wife IV)

    I have no fourth wife.such a thing would be absurd.

    I am not mad. and yet,I wonder to have known

    babies born from human

    mothers and eyes straining

    after words and waterdripping from a corner.

    there is a shadow strippingpaint from my white wall

    and there are dust motes liftedby the waiting air.

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    game.

    if one of uswere to die... This is yourgame. An old one betweenus now, together. There isa certain comfort inthe question, not least

    because there is no

    answer. It is beyondsome undiscovered vastness

    before us, like Jeffersonturning to Meriwether Lewis:What is out there, in that direction?he asks blandly, innocently,and points somewhere, anywhere,

    never knowing of Sacajewa.I am thinking, too, of Neil

    Armstrongs foot, pushing downslowly through thin gravitytowards what, for all he knew,

    was a mile of bottomless moondust. A query without bounds,

    because both of us know it willhappen, someday. Both of usgone, somehow, without the other.It is that unknown continent, centuriesaway.

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    glossolaliatogether.

    Theres the old story aboutthe prisoners, each pair tiedhand to hand, for years, joinedinextricably. The funny bitof this story comes next.

    The one with the whiskers andrheumatism spends years saving yarnto knit a sweater. After decades,on a cloudy evening, the two

    wander close to the fence. Thesweater is revealed as fine rope.

    Rheumatism is over the fence in a flash,leaving the companion dangling bya wrist, unliberated. Only one tug remains.

    And yet from the prison side comes a voice:Im staying, you dumkopk! Ive been sayingit for years. Dont you listen? Im not going outwith you. Caught there, trapped deaf,railing at each other.

    The other story, rarely told, is ofanother pair who also escaped thatnight. They found it difficultto cut their bonds, but lived

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    glossolalia

    what you know.

    the puzzles of my days,the secret perambulationsof shoes (from one room toanother) the migration of pens (from pocketto coat to tableto desk)

    the open books scatteredhere and there, haphazard

    broken open as if they are caughtin the midst of argument

    the way I can never start or enda conversation with my mother withoutraising my voice

    the way I cannot write a poem, withoutlying, at least once

    all these mild secretsnow part of the greatersecretof our joined lives.

    part of the

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    glossolaliaflock of our system, turning inits gyrations, in the night sky,

    like some faint magnitude of suns,bringing light to distant worlds..

    loves.(after Stephen Dunn)

    where does my love in you begin ?

    love, that impetuous ocean, brooks no beginning.there is that point in time, of course, that took meinto you, but your love, full, relentless,is like a pebble dropped in the calm of my life

    spreading its ripples in every direction untilthe waves of my affection for you are crossing

    back over each other, beyond safety, fillingevery space I can know, past and future bothand one knows merely the ripple before and behind.

    i love only that in you that is beautiful, everymoment in time you look at me, every flash of the

    waves crashing through your marine grey eyes.

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    glossolalia

    i love the lips that curl, armies of sarcasm heldback, checked by kindness, by sympathy, by whatyou know as shy, and i know as quiet, serenity.

    i love the curve of your skin against me, everyparticle of my being seeming to come alive as

    you curl against me in the early morning hours,and i know solely then that you are near andmy world is, if not complete, closer to heaventhan i ever hope to get.

    i love the determination of your spirit,the steel blade that lurks behind your stabbinginterest in any passing thing, the reality of

    your resolve, the way you will not rest until you have takenit by storm, and savored every morsel of its bones.

    i love the voice that comforts me, the soundof quiet embrace when tears are near. compassion

    becomes you, i think, when i recover myselfand realize with what grace you have giftedme with love, with what measure of skill

    you have given me back myself. i love the wayyou hold my weakness then, all of you focusedon what it means to love.

    and i love that other voice of frustration, of

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    glossolaliadisappointment, when you are angry withme, that tone stabbing into me at someslight. it seems to matter not if it is realor imagined both carry the same weaponsfor you. they say anger brings beauty, andif it is true, it is a terrible beauty, one filled

    with all wrongs, like the beauty of a treeset ablaze, living and yet unbearable to see.

    you are my fire and my threat, in that moment,and i love that no one else can quite take my

    breath from me.

    the conversation i have with you never seemsto end. always, we are touching on some sparor island that was left from our last journeyinto the land of discussion, and always weare diving back into that vast terrain ofcountry we walk between us, together. i love

    nothing so much as the endless quality oftalking with you. the pebble that fills the surface

    with love goes deeper here, a stone droppinginto a deep well, drifting endlessly down,catching the light at singular moments, so thatits reflection is cast back through the depths,it turns and twists in the current you arealways taking me there.

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    glossolaliai love something in you that is still smalland delicate and young. it is a charm thattoo many lose as they grow old,taking what was flesh and converting itto iron, or stone, metal, or wood. anything

    but what their heart wants. you haveno such transformative powers. you areas gently young as when you toldthe frog pond world of your tunes.

    i adore what you are, knowing thatone day i will cherish the same youngeyes in another, smaller version ofthe Jill i love, and watch her growand know where that high, lightlaugh was heard first, and wherethat crinkled brow first pushedout the lower lip with concentration.

    i love how you are ever opening mylife to that moment of letting go.always, you surface with some shellfull of paradox, some oyster thatholds rich tales. i love how you arealways floating on the light tide oflaughter.

    i love also the music of you. it is a

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    glossolalialight alto, something soft, seemingharmless. and yet you turn every note

    you hold with it like a blacksmithturning a blade in the flame. it isa voice in sympathetic vibration

    with that profound first symphony,that creative spume of genesis. i knowi carry with me every day some longforgotten breath of the musicof the spheres.

    there is no plainer way to say it:i love the way you walk. the equinethrust of your legs into the air lifts allof you out of the movement of a crowd.

    your shoulders seem to dance first, and thenthe flashing brilliant dark of your head,and only slowly do i see the pulse of your

    bosom, the curve of your abdomen, andunder it all the motion of your two legs,a mystery to me, the finest possessionsof some exotic creature i am about to meetfor the first time.

    your hands inspire me, their curving sinuousstrength against my own, the weight of themlaid, as if casually, into the crook of my neck,moving gently, ever so gently, over my skin.

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    glossolaliait is joy to me to know that on one even ifonly one of these jewels rests my jewel,in the late night, it quite takes my heartfrom me.

    i love what only i know, the parts of youburied under centuries of bedrock, thetenderness at the core. i love that youdont hide these old scars from me,lifting the cloak to watch my sadnessgrow at the wounds you carry with

    you every day. amazed, i wonderat the strength that takes you fromthe field hospital, and back into

    battle, day after day. few could survivesuch blows you seem to have grownfrom them, thrive on the survival ofsuch strokes. i love you for that.

    i love the turn of your head when youtake in beauty, swallowing it to yourcore. you have an eye for it, they say,and one knows this in every picture

    you choose, every photograph youlove, every glass you gaze into, andevery morning you rise. but i thinkmore than knowing beauty, youhave a hunger for it it is a reality

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    glossolaliato you, an elixir you need to live.

    i love the insistent urgency of your bodywith mine the intensity of passion, theslow surge of love between us, thefervor of body hunger in the lastmoments, and the after-wash ofscent and taste, uncoupling andtouch, that stay with me for daysafter.

    i love the pragmatist in you, the onewho looks clear-eyed at the demon-haunted world, and wishes them allaway, blowing the least spark offantasy to the wind. they are all

    will-o-the-wisp to you. and it ismore than admiration that keepsme bringing them to you, it is joyin knowing your keen gaze onmy life, on my soul.

    there are flavors in you that iknow exist in no one else, itis that savor which is Jill alone.it is a fortunate thing that everydish you cook carries some of you

    with it otherwise no one else

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    glossolaliawould ever know how varied, howcomplex, how loving is that taste.i am rarely chosen, a blessed singlemouth, who is allowed to relishthe aroma of every dish that carries

    you in it. and i cannot help but knowthe delicious variety of your spice,filling universes with pleasure.

    i love the speed of your thoughtsthe way they catch mine and overwhelmthem, outpacing even the most subtleexplanation, the kindest slight. youhave in you talents unknown, andon occasion i sight them from afar,like the tip of a great creature in the sea,surfacing for a moment before it blinks

    back out of sight. you hold these secretsinside you so tightly, i fear that when

    you loose them, they will be leviathanscoming from the deep.

    PART III: LOST

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    glossolalia

    Paradise Lost:A Contemporary Retelling

    (After John Milton)

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    glossolalia

    Calling the Angel of Song

    (from Book I)

    Lets agree to tell the truth, for once, about that first time: thedeadly fruitThey ate that night, the lethal lust that spreads still throughthe universe,

    An eternal poison eating like acid through our once-perfectlittle world.

    None of us can get back through Heavens door, until that Onecomes for us:

    But only you know this story, only you can tell whathappened. Oh creatureOf the stars, I was in love with you once and Ill still sing anysong you choose.

    For I long for your music, oh Muse of every angel-dusted poetfrom here to eternity Lover of Moses and Marvell, Byron, Blake, & Burroughs help me sing something

    No one has ever heard before. Come to me, sweet Spirit, takeme to a higher plane.

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    glossolalia

    I know you were watching as the quanta winked into time,when the lizardsCrawled out of the slime, you nested infinitely on the

    Mountain of Dream,Spreading your wings vast over the deep, until the void gavebirth to light.

    Now I toss and turn, straining to open my blind eyes, wantingto know GodTrying to understand something Ive never had the guts tobelieve before:

    Im begging you, please, bring into my great darkness somekind of holy light!

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    glossolaliaThe Fall of Satan (from Book I)

    Where does this story begin? On the skyscrapers of Heaven, ordown in theHellstorms of the Pit? Tell me one thing: thats all I want toknow: Why?

    What caused those two great lovers to throw all our lives away?

    Once, I know they had it all, and yet they smoked everythingaway.They ruled the world, yet like any dream of a new world, itcouldnt last.

    Youve told me how they could not resist that last taboo theone restraint.

    So they fell with broken wings and empty hopes, betraying allthey had.I swear he was a fucking snake from Hell who dealt her thatfirst hit:That shit was pure envy and revenge, and he lied as he put theneedle in.

    For hed seen them living large on the beaches of Eden, a lordlylife hed hadBefore hed made the hostile takeover attempt, and split theinfinite CompanyInto shareholders and outcast useless rebels, Heavens union

    broken forever.

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    glossolalia

    In his own fantasy, he was still CEO, an Executive staff and anAngelic masseuseAt his beck and call. He didnt plan on the business ending ingunfire and death.But he did pull the first weapon, he fired the first shot in Godsown Boardroom.

    The conspiracy revealed its plans for takeover during theattempted assassinationJust before his bomb detonated an explosion more powerfulthan any loaded 747.Heavens immense towers burst into fiery shards and fell. AllHell broke loose.

    Yet the battle was in vain: each of the conspirators werelaunched into dark depths.In unbreakable chains, they were hurled into orbit towardssome hideous prison.

    All those who defied the omnipotent law were destined for thateternal smoking pit.

    Time twisted and tore on the voyage: pain was all they knew fornine days and nights.Hed met the worst fate an immortal could imagine: a place ofendless anguish.His friends lay stunned, half-buried in the lava sea, but hisagony was interminable.

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    Rage pulsed through him at the memory of lost happiness andthe torment of defeat.

    When he opened infrared eyes, a deluge of flames seared awayevery last hope;

    Yet even this scorching vista gave no radiance across the plain,only darkness visible.

    Their world had been destroyed by Justice, their lives renderedinto a burning prison,Utterly dark from any sun, it was a sulfurous wasteland in

    which to blaze and die.Or, for these immortal rebels, a place to suffer forever and tolong for their lost light.At the Gates of Chaos: Hells Guards

    (from Book II)

    From light-years across the cosmos, Satan could see guardsstanding at the Gates:The first one had tits and a lovely pair of hips, but her legs weregone, onlyRotting snake skin coiled incessantly over the rest of her body,and a stink rose

    From the mouths of the hell-hounds that were welded into herreeking thighs.

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    glossolaliaThe dogs howled until the stars quivered at the sound. Thenthey ripped their wayBack inside her sick cunt, the sound of their howls resoundingthrough her flesh.

    Youve heard the old tales they tell aboutHecate, the mother ofall witches, whoHurtles yowling through the night, called down by the blood ofmurdered babies?

    Youve heard how she dances insanely until the moon drownsin gore? This was worse.

    The second guard at the Gate was hardly there at all, but Satanshuddered a moment

    At the Absence of it, a shadow emptier than any night, anothing terrible as Hell.The thing had no limbs not even any coiling snakes orclacking spider-claws.

    On the head of this black fury a red crown glowed radioactivein the endless gloom.Satan watched as a hollow hand held out a stinging spearthrobbing with dark energy.Then the shadowy monster walked to him, space itself shakingapart under his stride.

    But Satan feared nothing that could be created in the universeexcept God Himself and

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    glossolaliaGods unearthly Son. He sneered at the wraith of doom thatstood before him, and spoke:

    What kind of fucking terror are you to hold me up here? Illtell you now that Im going Through the Gates of Chaos and Imnot asking permission. You mutant spawn of Hell I am the One born in Heaven itself, so get the fuck out of my

    way, or taste annihilation!

    The perverse shadow raised its voice and roared back at him:Are you the Traitor?

    Are you the one who obliterated Heavens eternal peace? Areyou the one who wasToo proud and rebellious to bow and took a third of the Starsof Heaven with you?

    You swore to destroy the Highest, and for that I know youwere condemned to HellAnd you still have the balls to claim youre an Angel inHeavens Company?

    Youre doomed to spend eternity in agony, yet youre stillbreathing defiance

    Even here, where I myself am King of Chaos and let me twistthe knife for you In this Place, I am also your Master and your Lord. Get theHell back to that pit,

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    glossolaliaYou lying sack of shit, fly fast on wings of fear, or Ill lift myendless whip of

    Scorpions and flog your lying ass! If youre slow to go, Ill fire avolley into you too,Sending volts of unbelievable pain that will resound throughcenturies in your soul!The shadow grew as it spoke, deforming into something tentimes more dreadful.

    Yet Satan stood still upon the deep, indignant and incensed,flaming like a Comet

    Whose deadly tail wipes out constellations, he burned acrossthe cold night-sky,

    And when he shook his head with fury, pestilence and war rangacross the galaxies.

    Each of them aimed to land a lethal blow, one that would endthe battle immediately.Their faces were contorted with rage; they moved like twoimmense thunderheadsFrozen over a reflecting sea of night, lightning shattering fromthem as they hovered

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    God Speaks (from Book III)

    You, My Son, will be Executive Supreme over all the Companyof Heaven,For all creatures will bow to you, in Heaven, on Earth, and eventhose in Hell

    And I will grant you an entourage of Angelic warriors when youappear in the sky

    Then you will send the Arch-Angel to appear and sound a finalwarning to the Earth,And from every direction, the Dead from time immemorial willrise out of the groundRoused by the resounding notes of that last trumpet call fromtheir everlasting sleep.

    All your chosen Saints will help you choose between Evil andAngels.Those condemned by you will sink back down beneath your

    judgment, andWhen Hell is full of demons and their kin, You will lock that pitforever.

    The World itself will burst into flame, and from its ashes will becreated

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    glossolaliaA New Heaven and a New Earth, and those chosen by Justicewill live there.Their torture will end in golden days of bliss brought by theirgolden deeds.

    The Joy and Love of our kingdom will triumph, and we willknow its TruthFinally, youll be able to lay aside your Dictatorial Duties and

    your Royal SceptreWell have no need of Kings or Queens, for even God will nolonger need to rule.

    The Almightys light blazed out as bright as dawn: Now all youGods and ServantsOf my Kingdom, I command you to praise My Only Son, theRuler, who has chosenTo die, so that we might bring all things back to right. Honorhim as you would Me.

    The sound of the Almightys voice had barely died away whenthe collected crowdOf Angels began to shout, an infinite echo of His voicerepeating without number.Heavens towers rang out with joy, and happiness spilled overin an eternal flood.

    Solemnly each one of them bowed, and with a heartfeltreverence they cast

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    glossolaliaEvery one of their gold and jeweled crowns to the ground. Asthey rose againEach eye saw the immortal amaranth, an undying flower, onceplanted on Earth

    By Edens Tree, now brought to the center of Heaven for safety.They saw this flowerBloom above the fountain of Life, its petals shading the streamof endless happinessThat flows out of the eternal reaches, a molten river of goldenlight that never dies.

    Decorating their hair with beams of this light, Heavens Spiritsglowed themselves, Refracting like rose-colored diamonds,they danced along Heavens glassy walks,

    And took hold of the glittering instruments that hung likeweapons by their sides.

    The song of a unceasing symphony rang out, rapture sweepingacross the spheres

    A melody of sound that was irresistible, as every voice joined inthe harmony.The chorus went: Omnipotent Executive! Immutable,

    Immortal, Infinite, Eternal King!

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    glossolaliaYou are the Creator of all life the fountain of Light itself,

    Invisible, All Powerful!You are Bright Glory on an inaccessible throne, and we mustwait for you to shadeYourself, to draw a cloud around your radiance, so that wemight see your Glory!

    Dark with shining brightness we see the edge of yourgarments you dazzle us!

    Even the strongest Seraphim must use their wings to shieldtheir eyes from yourGlorious Light, oh God! We sing to You of the endlessmultitude of your Creation,

    And we sing of your Only Son, whom you have now chosen tomake Executive

    Supreme, the one ruling Kingdoms, Thrones, Princedoms,Dominions, Powers!Youve laid the mantle of succession on his shoulders for youare all powerful!

    For He was the One who put down the first insurrection, letloose the terrible ThunderOf Gods immortal wrath, charged out with flaming swordsand righteous anger

    And cried as Heavens great structure shook to itsfoundations! Oh Warrior Strong!

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    glossolaliaA Lady, A Lie (from Book IX)

    If, as you say, God did make all things, who put Wisdom intothe leaves andFruit of this Tree here? Why would He make it possible forsomeone to eat?So where, I ask you, is the wrong in doing what is natural withthis Tree?

    After all, if its possible for you to know you should know!And how,I ask you, would the fact that you know something hurt theCompany?

    After all, youre owned by Heaven, and so is the Tree yourejust part

    Of the same Family. You dont envy the Trees inbornKnowledge, do you?I cant believe that a beautiful woman with such incredible

    breasts would envy!God youre so wise and beautiful! Ive given you all the reasons,

    but most of all

    I know youd like a hit! Satan ended with a smile, his wordslaced with liesDripping into her veins, a needle sliding easily, deep into a

    beating heart.

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    glossolaliaTransfixed by the hanging Fruit, his speech sang through Evesempty ears.

    In her own mind, all he said seemed persuasive, impregnatedwith logic,And she was hungry: the mere smell of that Fruit gave passionto her desireShe longed to touch it, to taste it. She watched it swell in themouth of the snake.

    Yet she paused, unable to take her eyes away, and talked, as ifto herself:God made you a Great Tree of Knowledge and the best kind ofsweet

    Yet Hes kept it from his creatures making it impossible forus to eat.

    So where is the wrong in doing what is natural with thisluscious Fruit?

    After all, the merest taste of it gave human speech to thisforked-tongue beast

    And shouldnt we praise God by knowing you after all, Hemade this Tree.

    Of course, the Company prohibits us from touching you, fromtasting you,

    Yet we are part of the same Family, for we are all made ofGood, are we not?

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    glossolaliaTo be clear then, he forbids us to be good and that kind of lawis not a law!

    And if we die in eating such a Fruit, then perhaps it would bebetter to be freePerhaps it is our doom to simply eat, and die. Yet look again atthe Snake He ate the thing, and look he lives, and knows, and evenspeaks so wise!

    I saw him yesterday, and he was deaf and dumb to me. Is Deathonly for us?Or is it only that we cant become smarter only the beasts canget wise?Its not envy that beats so passionately in me, but joy at thegood in this snake.

    For he has found great good, it seems, and shared his discoverywith all so free.He doesnt lie or fake whats happened to him, and so what do Ifear?I live in ignorance I dont know Good or Evil, God or Law orDeath.

    I am sick with stupidity, and here, in front of me, is the cure formy ill.

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    glossolaliaOn the Tree it grows, this divine Fruit that will take me to ahigher place:Beautiful to look at, incredible to the Taste, and oh so full of

    Wisdom!

    As she spoke these final words, she reached out rashly andplucked the Fruit.It was an evil hour when she ate, the planet shuddered apartfrom the stress,

    And the universe quaked on its moorings, bleeding from thatfatal wound.

    All was lost, and quickly the serpent slithered away through thequaking bushes.It didnt care anymore: Eve was slurping up the taste, intent ongetting more.She felt shed never known a fruit so ecstatic, yet perhaps this

    was imagination.

    For she thought of endless knowledge as she ate, and ofbecoming a Goddess too:Everything spun in drunken frenzy as the lust for that Fruitsang in her veins.She gorged herself without restraint, and yet was blind as sheate her Death.

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    After the Fall

    (from Book XII)

    The world was all before them, which way to chooseTheir place of rest. Fate would be their guide now, forLost they were, the world wide and wild, an empty wood.

    Clasping hands they went, their nakedness covered by fear astheySearched for comfort, wandering through that wasted garden,alone.

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    uthor:About the Author:

    Ned Hayes is a novelist and poet who was raisedbilingually in China. He has been the recipient of fellowshipsfrom Western Washington University in Bellingham,

    Washington and Luther Seminary in St. Paul, Minnesota andadmission to the Rainier Writing Workshop. His poetry,fiction, and non-fiction has appeared inMid-American

    Review, Hot Ink, Labyrinth, Twig, Lost Creek, Simuland

    many other publications. He recently completed a completeretelling of MiltonsParadise Lostin contemporary verse.Further literary work from Ned Hayes can be found at

    nednotes.com.