The Eliyahu

 Eliyahu
 
It's about escaping, never arriving at any state different from the one we fled. One society exchanged with another for controls. Salvation comes in one ounce packs. Freedom comes to someone else. Elijah awake blew everything up. Jars of pickles exploded all over London. He mulled why one kernel went off or not. What was his gift, no news to Washington, body parts spread more seriously along the Thames? Gofernment cordons it off. Gogernment opposes forces. Superpods digest fluorescent mucous from past sacrifice. All wars against the natural, self, other, nothing Gorgonment, the war to end them all. Elijah, the man with four letters, aleph, lamed...Eliyahu who had a desk in no building, no desk except the count books with their spanking covers, books and plants where he grew monarchs from chrysalis, checked the progress of the rotting sycamore twenty feet up for carpenter bees, big black buzzers that inhabit the cracks and fly the hollows. He had a hand in the populations of tortoise and Gambel quail that took refuge. Salvation comes in  miniatures.
Seems inevitable as a ring of fire managing fantasies, history, little dreams of boxcars and underground cities. Fellow fantasies write when they're spun by the viscose MIRRors in Meadville, Chester, Parkersburg, in bars with little canisters of drilled couplets, doilies to shield the surface from tarnish, water rings the inn keep wipes clean. Next customer up, what will you mate: memory wipe, rejuvenalization straight, phantasmagor fantasy to live over reprogrammed, the audience of heaven exploding episodes to remove anxiety, dreams working late at a farm to raise eagles?

 Happily wearing a heavy shirt, a large eagle lands on his shoulder, the life it must know, while a smaller female in his lap, surrogate profusion of eagles that found the carcass gathering, and a baby snuggles into his fur as if to such, the mother preening it the while, the father perched with claws next to the neck, a look out and the four sit to begin this wait. Each person, the unique text unwritten, burns in precognition, before the fact warning. As if  St John, de nada, portals, hideaways, blue prints, Kyrie Elieson, were heard a cappella under the casement of papered walls emaciates come to call sinners not the righteous, each point of light dark like swimming underwater in viscose fish tank with a blessing. Not waiting in Weimar or the wonders of survival under Dresden, stories, sense impressions of the real, bailing out over Paris, not this unreal unstart that can't hear the nose of its own approach, vapor trails of rockets that deny chemtrails of a war on reality the way ghosts in St John flee the fields of Judea.

 Shouldn't he be doing something, run to the street, warn the others, empty the mind, not wait for the cupboard jars to explode or the fall that has not yet launched commandos. You can wake up on the coast and swim out. Have a beautiful day in September among the grass that overwhelms a century before it has anything to say. We say it for him, Jeremiah his St. John, the obvious. There will be a captivity, there will be eyes rasping for light, shadows of herd grown great, wasted gods rotting in their pillows. Breakfasts and dressing, being as we are without bodies, cruets, crocks, casseroles may be fantasies of the mass collective corp, but he had none, cut off farther than we can imagine.

This is the place before you go and after the escape. All effort was to get out of the city, or the country, someplace among the multitudes falling beside trucks, in the roads, the privileged pacing by in armored cars. Why they let peasants in is due the master plan, peace and happiness for every man. Play your saxophone dear.  No need press faces against windows, noses on panes. Your reflection in the glass is as much in other faces that you pass, carrying as much as they can into the beyond. No point describing the setting, old hotel or warehouse or station of the mind, bestial turnings round which 14th century conclusions were the norm. He actually carries John Gower's Voice of One Crying, wants to know the name of the writer. Given. We want to know the details of his imbuement in the dark, covering light instead of details, get to the point of entrainment as if fiction, as if description warms the difference between this, the smells and sounds and the crowds shuffling. Is he alone as the eye or the ear that hears what none can say, no passengers or refugees yet, for he is before the fact, before the fall if you like to put it so. If you don't know what any of this means it hasn't happened yet. Ignorance is prevention, which explains his pocket Gower, filled with apprehension I shall sing of true dreams whose import disturbs the depths of my heart. May the ole whom the Isle of Patmos received in Apocalypse, and whose name I bear, guide this work.