Benedict Ion says it well, "To bless the land
enters a relationship with the Lord, Our God;
nothing less than consecration, to dedicate
entire swaths of terrain to build a church, a bland
decidedly bizarre use of fertile soil, worth
its weight in salt, to keep us from digging the sod,
consecrate, consecrate, consecrate, consecrate,
to make sacred the sacred earth, dig our own graves."
In French, Benedict reads Charles Baudelaire, his birth
over two centuries ago, shows how his verse
necessitates recitation like Joyce in June.
Sanctimonious smile, he recites from a hearse
as it makes its way up the path, the women swoon
yet some titter like birds, when he proclaims, "God saves";
some realize he quotes Johnny Rotten, the punk
in the tartan bondage outfit, naked cowboys
talk sweetly as blasphemous priests bugger lovers.
"Waste not, want not..." Benedict throws out scraps, the junk
establishment decides the poor can have to own,
leave something for the poverty-stricken, old toys
left soiled from years of use, worn blankets for covers.
"To bless the land," Benedict says, "for whom, for priests
otherwise known as bachelors for life, who groan
blissfully in their beds after long days of talk,
literally thousands of words spoken each day,
enter into silence only at night; to walk
simply one mile in their sandals, we learn to pay
service to lip service, honor the King of Beasts."
"The ghost of anarchy shadows the waxwing slain,"
he spoke of Nabokov, a name none could pronounce,
exact reference noted within some poem.
"Land of Hope and Glory" played from the hearse. "Denounce
artists as priests of blasphemy, ask the golem
not to speak of silence, crimson rivers the rain
drains in sewers, but to ask us for a brain."
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