Beneath the Surface

Meanwhile, at the Gothic Art show,
where the library of Alexandria
has failed to burn down,
due to better security
and more available stone,
the question gets asked,
but there is always a chance
for a follow-up question
and the mysteries are further
along, which is to say, more science,
less so magic ... but why roil of crosses?

Why is it written down at all?
Why was it written, or read, upside down?
Why should a Book be painted in two-thirds,
Magdalene in richer surroundings,
revealed with a pot of Lily
in the foreground to foretell
the coming and going of Joan of Arc?

Why would God need to read down,
creating the need to leave the Book
pointed up in order to ascertain
that which the Creator already knows?

In the Book of Kells
the Gaelic kept
the coming and going,
waiting to leave and weave
out in a swirl of possibilities,
in a dervish tree-mind of Nature ...

O, how such details are wasted
on Jesus believers in a hurry
to get home to watch the Dallas Cowboys
down from above ... They, who have found
such easy answers on the surface, maybe a halo,
a hoot, in the institutions of the arts,
who drives their hairy chariots
across the bones of the Blood
of Jesus, always the little boy,
always the Man, the Saint!

O sure, O sure,
the Iris isn't Eris
for sorrows or such fools,
for neither minnows or Bulls,
for the peacocks or for Pride,
or for Paradise
or for the AOL
of the mind ...

For Fibonacci?
For factories in Flanders?
Do we blame the Dutch ... really?
The Dutch? And speaking of towns,
tongues and virgins, unchurched,
but, all the same able to act
quite natural, but hidden for sight
in those visceral bones of sacred light,
the arcana of the Black Madonna
in from views but taller than them all
in the geometric sacred Twin Towers
of Solomon ... for Hieronymous Bosch,
who liked the challenge of harbors
in disorders and hidden orders
to synthesize the Dhambala,
the Sirius, the Dog Star ...
in order to ask O why, o why
or why ...