Canto III As the wheel of words sets language free so
the wheel sits as substrate to break the man— the iron bar the poker applied
to bone— the pen hardened : nib to ink— against
the substrate to liberate the man— so the wheel circles with wagons full of turnips— fiery
arrows protrude— Blackfeet wheel their ponies back and forth until the settlers exhaust then
carry peaches and apples into the stockade to celebrate their capture : the wagon wheels protrude from
their great-great-grandchildren’s lawns surrounding the faculty at Bozeman who promptly surrender— their hearts burn in unquenchable flame as the sun sinks behind Nahsukin Mountain— harvest
the glacier lilies “most delicate rootes that may be eaten, and doe farre exceed our passeneps or carets,” as Hakluyt says altissimus
gurges wheel as round as my bloat : you read a book a bit (or a bigger bit) you buy the thing to tame because
“no room left in the upper room— always
space in the attic” Dasius won’t mount the Lord of Misrule’s chariot— wheels
of polished wood : spokes of hickory revolving transparently : hubs of elm turning as film reels : iron axle humming as a coin operated massaging mattress in
Hoboken for the Poetry Editor Beau Brummell who once dated a girl named Patty O’Dasius who hailed from Fort Lee : her father had a seat on the stock exchange from whence he bought and sold Bridgestone before the Explorers flipped, wheels rotating crazily like pinwheels in the funhouse : terrifying to carry the whole isle Moher to Shannon, stone
walls, standing stones, or fallen crosses : the dirt in your knickers and on them citizens one and all holding your hands to
drag you down none to raise you up to the clouds as the sun sinks behind Nahsukin Mountain— burn the bear’s skat— : paintbrush, fleabane, fireweed, baneberry, parsnip, hellebore, chokecherry, butterweed, arnica, huckleberry : embroider the winter count Assez de cubisme, bring
me the wheelism— Bronzino paints the medicine wheel (or was it earlier, some anon. student of Verrocchio?) . . . Bronzino paints medizeischen
Fürstin . . . Bronzino paints Bigfoot playing
with hobbits who drink barley wine like water— Bigfoot would rather listen to Rodney Crowell than Verdi, rather see Chagall than de Kooning, watch Roseanne not ER, play Wheel of Fortune not Go, eat Wieners not paté, screw Chelsea then Madonna, drink Smuttynose then Old Nick, read Dante then Tom Clancy— see, Bigfoot has priorities, has an agenda, has sushi, maki, and sake, has Kim Richey and Lisa Loeb on the phone so would you care for a singalong? a gong? arroz con pollo? chowda? salmon tartare? Armani, Prada, Dior? because the wheel spins too slowly, the Fates weave too slowly— the Condors have eaten too many angels— and Jackson Browne seems empty— and Ringo and Paul seem chary— Clapton, tired, Henley, in the woods, Tyler, saggy, Petty, wan, Costello, sacked, so the wheel rolls over them as though they weren’t even beneath
its teeth as though time spites them, as though space emits them, not even their souls fill the holes in the centers of their records— their works spin soundlessly : blow wind, wrack and wilt— your hair’s in a tizzy and frizzy— but the wheel’s not a windmill driven by Satan’s wings wind
beaten— turned upsidedown— one
wheel rolls hither thither bone
white whetting knives
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