Poem to the Eagle Writer

To the Eagle Writer, who calls to me,

To help me sing this song,

Her name letters with mine.

A, C, E, G, H, I, J, K, L, J, M, N, O, P, R, S, T, W

I praise her to the Nine who can still all that is,

Make singing Ohm the heat o' their song.

Take her into their heart,

teach her arts Erato, Calliope, Terpsichore

Since Orphe was torn in two, repair them.

Homer the Greek sang o' them,

the Great Muses who inspire all Creation.

What I once was

She has , what we keep, she will get

all o' it – I’ll hemorrhage pools, pink, orange, now green, still there is no menace

or loss – her grace has come, now it goes

no harm – thinking is gone – she has that, which comes

no waste – I remark, "what a sop, what a ship wreck" . . .  she helps me sing this pathetic song.

She starts, shoots 'till fear is all no more.

A killer Eros, whose sharp arrows pierce the skin.

I'll make peace, or she will take with power the peace she knows she has.

Her white eagle claws tear open the chest.

All the Artists, palm her,

The Poet hearts shake in pits.

She calls the capital, mortgages all creation.

The Creation we owe to her.

Those who steal what is hers,

Egos, 'till she takes them all,

Then emptiness is theirs.

All the poets,

their poems,

in all meters,

thirst to her

all the minstrels

those who minister

thirst to her

all the writers

their writings

their thinking reasons

all gone to her.

(she can rip their pages, cease their reason.)

all the philosophers

their philosophizing philosophies

she spares them not.

all the painters

all their paintings

are taken to m_se_ms.

all the singers, all the operas
all their songs

she can start or stop

energetic or romantic
historic or erotic

All, not one, not one spit less than all,

All is gone to her,

All that is in creation, will go.