PRODUCTION

PRODUCTION

on the farm,
perforce, we
put our heads together

everything under the Sun
puts is head together

wheels
    set in
              motion

as
word        speads

and Heraclitus of Miletus
stops by

a number of things
brings to mind

solid argument inclusive: that
all is
     twice, thrice,
there is nothing that
is not in process

meanwhile (forgive the inadvertent South African
colloquialism) not
back
    at the ranch
but in the heart of Johannesburg

they are staging a production
of Euripides’ The Bacchae
have
already
     launched into
the opening scene

which very instant, being
in the audience my
mind
     thirsting for
ecstasy
    veers towards chaos, entropy,
fractal mathematics

as we suddenly welded into one
sift and exchange
that whole Pandora’s box
of memories and
recollections

whispers and ghosts
the very
        incantations that
pull aside the veil, strip
off the veneer

speaking for myself
               but
perhaps all

hardly able to wait, kill
that terminal longing,
                               set eyes
upon the mask
that is
        dark Dionysus’ face

CROSS

CROSS

my sphere
your sphere

two
    hemispheres

no actual line
of demarcation
marked
     for us to
cross

at out
peril

   as painful first
step to

(what discord, what
dissonance,
         what celestial music)

some
       kind
of redemption, state

       of liberation

EQUATOR

EQUATOR

forget boundaries
forget enclosures

here
there are no
prisons for the body
of the soul

there is wide expanse
open sky only

boundless
       across the page
between the lines
each and every

three sixty degrees
meridian and back
from pole to pole
         twice across
the equator

planet
to galaxy
ocean to ocean

from
the river

to the sea