Revision 2 (2/2): The Second Existential

1.

We need food -- barley cakes,
Skinned fish, boiled, molten, rushed out,
Gutted, for the gut, and cuts
Of succulent kine, rolling the plate
Full ruts. The mind
Needs it too, not of the mental
Kind but rather flying through veins,
And bits of digestion must reach
Every extremity of being. Without

A serving of cake, a generous portion
Of steak, the hills cease to roll
Into mountains, rich in the purpled glare
Of dawn, the rippling green of the sea
Greys, all things drain of their color, the sap
Gets sucked out of life, even the eyes
Drop and fix on the dirt, the body stales,
And the mind on a tumult of doubt
Fades. Neither is it cause for surprise

That Virgil -- plump on harvests
Of Ciconian olives, Sicillian grain
That the hard hands of maidens
Calloused to bread for the fires, dough
In the moltens of iron -- forged
Dreams of home and steel, perfection
Of stolen In riot, and every drop of wine
Lengthened into lines, half-lines
Fed on the whirling Tiber's

Crop. But while he lushed
Silence for the farmer, sibilant leaves
For the cycling seasons, the beggar
Whose eyes are penury begot
Half-forms, grimy fledglings sopping
With a semen coat of slick
Sack to mold as the years molded him
Before, becoming the semblance of human
Being. So Zora Neale

Hurston, hands chopped and split
Into wrinkles of sunset
avenues, foraging up spit nickels
For tips on suds of saliva
And hair, complaints and a fridge bare
Of any cheese, pressed ululations
Of bread, crumbs chipping and chipped, barely
Squawked the mountainous life-cooking
Braid, a swan-song collected from tatters
Like a rag-patch silked
Together, I can't say how:

2.

For so slickly food changes moods, begets
And breaks on the temper of time. Art
Supposes an order, demands the complacent
Body spring and spin, like a child that fools
With a top; the impudent mind awes
At the dizzied horizon, dyes in calamity
Of whirling motion, cries for the dance,
And the dance, dance, calls outraged like a fat
Old miser demanding his drink, metallic thud
Of the goblet on hard, but the service
Will not be provided, neglect
Wrecks the insolent household,
The feast is abolished. Pity the minds

That think through a heap of material
Goods, struggling all the while
For a pile of trash into the sky, tottering mix
Of wealth, whether spurting
Immortality, a marbled, soft-lined
Coffin cool in the shade of luxurious
Lindens' sagging yellow limbs; or others
Who glory in books, even fine
Verses that teeter and ring with a gentle
Tone, the serene mutter of a well-placed
Rhyme. Meanwhile they seize for this
Garbage, felicitous rot, toil to bind and weld
Rusty scraps of iron to bronze stained
Sprays of silver, glutinate gold; but trapped

In the saccharine mist of aggravations, the whole
Rumbles a foghorn, blares like a violent
Forecast of horses, war drums, shakes, and rather
Than beat to these thrums, they hack bleeding
Limbs, torn off fists in fisticuffs, trying to seduce
The immense mess of quivering scraps to their own
Genius, impose or oppose the impeccable tune that they've
Borne from this crap. All things are a wretched pitch

But just themselves, and when a storm
Rips the air like an old rag shrieking with shock
At the stretching heat, tremendous armies collide
In the clouds like crags or continents grating
On bare wound of the swollen earth:
The planet bleeds a tremendous flood, also many sparks,
Colors we don't or can't attend to, wild thrill
Of lightning that orbits vermillion and blue
Through the burning forests, phantasmagoric splendor
While we implore the teetering heavens for help.

Revision 1 (2/2)

1.

We need food -- barley cakes,
Skinned fish, boiled, molten, rushed,
Gutted, to the gut, and cuts
Of succulent kine, rolling the plate
Full ruts. The mind
Needs it too, not of the mental
Kind but rather flying through veins,
The bits of digestion must reach
Every extremity of being. Without

A serving of cake, a generous portion
Of steak, the hills cease to roll
Into mountains, rich in the purpled glare
Of dawn, the rippling green of the sea
Greys, all things drain of their color, the sap
Get sucked out of life, even the eyes
Drop and fix on the dirt, the body stales,
And the mind on a tumult of doubt
Fades. Neither is it cause for surprise

That Virgil, plump on harvests
Of Ciconian olives, Sicillian grain
That the hard hands of maidens calloused
To bread for the fires, dough
In the molt iron furnace, forged
Dreams of home and steel, stolen perfection
In riot, and every drop of wine
Lengthened into lines, half-lines
Fed on the whirling Tiber's

Crop. But while he lushed
Silence for the farmer, sibilant leaves
For the cycling seasons, the beggar
Whose eyes are penury begot
Half-forms, grimy fledglings sopping
With a semen coat of slick
Sack to mold as the years molded him
Before, becoming the semblance of human
Being. So Zora Neale
Hurston, hands chopped and split
Into wrinkles of sunset
avenues, foraging up spit nickels
For tips on suds of saliva
And hair, complaints and a fridge bare
Of any cheese, pressed ululations
Of bread, crumb-chipped and chipping, barely
Squawked the mountainous life-cooking
Braid, a swan-song collected from tatters
Like a rag-patch silked
Together, I can't say how:

2.

For so slickly food changes moods, begets
And breaks on the temper of time. Art
Supposes change, demands the complacent
Body spring and spin, like a child that fools
With a top; the impudent mind awes
At the dizzied horizon, dyes in calamity
Of whirling motion, cries for the dance
And the dance, calls outraged like a fat
Old miser demanding his drink, metallic thud
Of the goblet on hard, will not be provided, the cause of his
Insolent neglect has wrecked his household,
And the meal never comes. Pity the minds

That struggle across a heavy wreck of material
Things, thinking all the while that somehow
A jump of the vortex, a shredding rip
Of some great matter other than, god
Can deliver all troubles, still the resonant,
Rumbling world. But better to strike yourself
Against the harsh bells of the earth than wait
For heavenly tunes; the clanging cymbals
Can't stop, and the mind is forced to yield
To this music. All things are a wretched pitch

But just themselves, and too when the storm
Scatters the air with shrieking heat and tremendous
Armies collide through the clouds like crags
Or continents grating on the bare, swollen
Planet, there are also many sparks, many colors
That we don't or can't attend to, the wild thrill
Of the lightning that orbits vermillion
And blue through the wrecking forest misses us
While we stare to the churning heavens for help.

Original

We need food -- barley cakes,
Skinned fish, boiled, molten, rushed,
Gutted for the gut, and cuts
Of succulent kine, rolling the plate
Full ruts. The mind
Needs it too, not of the mental
Kind but rather flying through veins,
The bits of digestion must reach
Every extremity of being. Without

A serving of cake, a generous portion
Of steak, the hills cease to roll
Into mountains, rich in the purpled glare
Of dawn, the shrilling eagle
Loses the hare, the rippling green of the sea
Greys, all things drain of their color, the sap
Get sucked out of life, even the eyes
Drop and fix on the dirt, the body stales,
And the mind on a tumult of doubt
Fades. Neither is it cause for surprise

That Virgil, plump on harvests
Of Ciconian olives, Sicillian grain
That the hard maidens' hands calloused
Into bread for the fires, dough
In the molt iron furnaces, forged
Dreams of home and steel, perfection
In riot, and every drop of wine
Lengthened into lines, half-lines
Were fed by the whirling Tiber's

Crop. But while he lushed
Silence for the farmer, sibillant leaves
For the cycling seasons, the beggar
Whose eyes are penury begot
Half-forms, grimy fledglings sopping
With a semen coat of slick
Sack to mold as the years molded him
Before, becoming the semblance of human
Being. So Zora Neale
Hurston, thick in the grime
Of other people's moldy sunsets,
Barely chimed her swan-song on the hair
That flows through the ridges
Like wind-blown silk, somewhere, lost, flutters
Of a tattered dress, I can't say how;

So slickly food changes
Moods, begets and breaks
On the temper of time.