Blues for Byzantium from From Scratch. Black Sparrow Press, 1998. Clangs of Yeats like blues Byzantium a stretch-limo surrounded by Liberian juju bands of roving infected studs "dome" a research lab on the Ross Ice Shelf "starlit" and "moonlit" work for a cruise line The night-walkers have no song- they're banged, a mockery of gong The other night Shade appeared on Jay Leno "Flames No Faggot Feeds" just cut their first CD "image" is anything you want it to be All that cock isa Hadic bobbin' bough crow moisture mummy seas the Muse as changeless metal "scorn[ed]" "common bird and petal" complexed in midden atmosphere "dolphins' mire and blood" Japanese tuna seines Green dolphin morgue with chordal seams As if Yeats might now hear Bud Powell's "Blues for Bouffemont," a sanatorium outside Paris, 1963, a Byzantium abstract percolating through the changes, sound-rhymes like winding, mobile windows, gong and marble, word-windows facing walls, images that yet images beget, scorned, embittered, Powell in agony of trance, shade more than man, drunken, abed, a shape connected to wires by electro-shock set in motion, Calder mobile more than shade, rototilling while reaping, doors yielding doors, in the yielding a window intercedes, revolving, throwing off arousals compounded of sacrifice and ooze- Over a sunken Golgonooza, an eight-winged hermaphroditic cherub, Blake hovering- I lit my palm with Lascaux, saw Caryl drift across what had become impossible to see: origin, love, and contemporary fire in any sense of harmony I lit my palm, by Lascaux's bird-headed man, saw the image recede through Egypt's human-headed bird to Yeats' "golden handiwork" -the killed-out image hovering, archangelic toy in late air.