A man hungry for glory
Full of ambition and hot air
But starving.
He sharks up things to feed himself
Consuming whatever is before him
Indiscriminate and determined
Moving ever forward
Like a great white
Consuming.
And is it an accident that this insatiable shark
Has his hand up the skirt of a nation?

Back story back story
Important back story
Political battle back story
That, unless you’re really keyed in to Danish/Norwegian political talk
You might just tune out
Because this is one sentence
One LONG sentence
That doesn’t even answer the question.
There were heroics
There was a duel
One king vanquished the other
And land was his reward.
This is the moment when our king became our hero
And then became our ghost.

It’s airy
Aspirated
Giving the news
Surrounded by breath
And secrecy.
The rhythm is long and hurried
Three sentences in one
The consonants pop
And the vowels are soft.
It’s the music of the wind
With words in.

I’ve got this.
This one, I’ve got.
In this case, I have the answer
I’m the hero
I’m in the know
This one’s mine
I’ll hit this ball
I’ll kick that goal
I ring this bell.
I got it, I got it, I got it
Hand raised
Running across the field
At the chalkboard
In the studio
At the table
In the lab
I got it, I got it, I got it.

A man who doesn’t believe in prophecy
Suddenly begins to read meaning in signs.
A ghost appears: Our country is fucked.
The one thing doesn’t usually follow the other
But in this case
He’s right.
He may preface his predictions
With qualifications
But the man has put his finger
On the volcano in the midst of Denmark
About to blow.
Then, in telling his friend about it
He hastens its explosion.

I spend these hours
Casting about in my mind
Looking for a vein to mine
A stream to fish
A wheel to turn
A row to hoe
Tools at the ready
(pen, paper, desk)
Muscles primed to WORK
But in what particular
Thought to work
I know not.

How in the blazes does Horatio know how Hamlet, the king,
FROWNED
In a battle years ago?
Was he there watching?
Did someone sketch the frown of the king as he did his smiting?
It’s also not clear what a sledded poleaxe might be
Poleaxe, Pollacks. . .and what makes it, or them, sledded?
And who took notes?
Why return to this battle after death, King Hamlet?
Why freeze yourself anew, ready to smite upon the ice?
Horatio recognizes this expression, though. . .
It brings it all back to mind. . .
That particular frown
That particular SMOTE.

I know this isn’t what he’s saying
But I put these words in a kaleidoscope
And I see me
And my art
Cells intertwined
As I am myself
As my art is itself
As we two are one mixed up thing
Little bits of art
Next to little bits of self
All starred
All circled
And diamonded together
Into a firework of being.

If you heard it
You might not believe it.
If you felt it
You’d question it.
If you smelled it
You’d credit your imagination.
If you tasted it
Or sensed it in any other way,
It would not be enough.
It is the eyes
The judge and jury
The gavel banger of the senses.
We use all the others first.
We hear, nestled in the womb,
Feel the turn in the circle of fluid,
Smell the world as we raise our heads into it,
Seek out the breast with our feeling lips
And taste what will feed us.
Later, later, we begin to understand with these
Guiding balls of jelly
And as we do,
Sight takes over
Standing on all the other knowings
And shushing them.

To charge
To charm
To conjure
To funnel all command and requirement
Into the jolt of an electrical impulse
This is what I will summon
To hear your voice.