by Bill Ectric
They say Christians who prayed to Mary created more art
and the invention of self-searching essays marked the end of heroism.
Rocks and shells, rocailles and coquilles,
Rolling Rock Ale, the vine on the trellis
outside my old Jacksonville duplex on Oak Street
almost died, but flourished in the spring, when
the quaint round face of Tycho Brahe’s star, brilliant as
a Venus oriental dawn splitting image in two conditions,
illustrated articles on nuclear physics, Baroque salons,
Reminds one of early movies with pagan extras to fill up a jazz club floor shows.
George Washington’s silence, gray buildings, false reports on the suspected reasons
for cold and hunger,
The Blue Man of the North and the smiling spirit of spring daughters descending from the sky
in a basket with the robust pamphleteer who had been a member of the infant state.
Pocahontas saved my life. Parson Weems, on a clear water mechanical photocopy of old
newspaper clipping and writer’s block is your subconscious trying to tell you something.
An art gallery trying to tell you something;
trees yielding green ripples trying to tell you something.
Colonial ruins, embraced by our landscape, and the earthquake of 1812 left cracks in the
Tennessee clay, trying to tell you something.
But nothing impresses her like Luther’s hymns based on popular music.Top of Form
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