Friday, October 24, 2003

Raven has been raving about the latest CIA shenanagins in Venezuela. He's also, however, traveling in the Andes with me, as the poem below will confirm:


Raven is transfixed,
frozen like a Morris Graves
bird on a canvas,
lapis lazuli pastels
barely whimpering his tune.

It’s the mountain light
that snagged him in its talons:
bird caught by cloud’s
song. Circling the cathedral,
mocking its bricks and mortar,

suddenly he saw
his Raven face reflected
in the dome. Behind
his flutter of feathers: clouds
burled by the sun, blue stone sky

poised like a closed vein
to receive Raven’s knife cry
as he roughly cuts
himself free, bathing the late
afternoon sky with his blood.

Cuenca, Ecuador
October 14, 2003