For Max Pizarro I God almighty! The puissant progress of it all! Arch-mad with digits, The 20th century summed up through a fogged pane of sky-blue limits, Its typeset changes out each Pater Noster for news, front-page and back. These are outside happenings which remand nothing—for thou art Naught to me! Yet they require my innermost fealty of stone-to-heart, Even as the stone grows smaller, harder, more cardiac.
II I was a Roman Catholic infant in my time, the wooden splinters Of my cribbed cross a plastic rip-off, too much like the cheap white collars That parsons and pardoners go about detaching from the present. But bitterness stands not so tall. No, not in the saddle. Who am I But one who sleeps and rides a nightmare, anorexic and shadowy, Of sword and cross? Who am I—Sancho? A too modern, too silent Cipher sweat-beading full-tilt at wind-steepled surfaces. Yes, between Guilt’s breath, my sin’s interim will game to play on purity and preen With impatience. (The old pearl-quest of knighthood—too fusty, I know.) Abolished manliness, meanwhile, locks itself in Castle Desperation Like naked Adam bound in his bonds, rooking his racked and blood-checked brain. Ah, who can see beyond the visored vizier’s human frontier? Sancho? III I confess now I’ve pen and inked my lance for freer, less forgiving furrows Than Camelot, itself now a bank of kitschy Caesarian casinos, Its indigenous emeralds inking blowzy pulp into federal mint. And ordinary time papers over the heart’s continual round of feasting; While the moveable feast rivets fonts of pleasure into time’s clock spring— So, God help me, let time feast away at flesh, but I pray this heart’s flint Falls like stone, this joust-jouncing errant’s, saddle-rousted by love --God’s lance.
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