"Thrift"

A squalid abyss of light
follows, wolf
to my planward thoughts; and Xanadu
flows frigid music.

Roiling coiling marrow-road of magnolia
without a thirst in this world
or door to carol:

what song thrusts past shadowy my way
full of frith
and swift, tumultuously craggy argot?


“At a towering concrete crucifix, planted between the church and the street, women with upraised arms pray indiscriminately to ‘Jezy’ (Jesus) or to ‘Bawon’ (Baron Samedi), the Vodou god of death and sexuality. For many Haitians, Jesus and the Baron are the same divine person sharing the same cross.” --Donald J Cons*ntino, Vodou Things (1998)

Th* Unconscious Civilization.