The shrill whisper of my demon
woke me, interrupting restful
bliss; but as any man vexed would,
I resisted the coercive
intruder. Yet the muse would not
be put-off, and struck me upon
the hip; whereat he spoke to me
in a voice alike the Poet-Prince,
advising that I should now seek
another way from my hell. And
still I disdained against. Again
the voice-spirit endured me and
so charged, “Look homeward Abdiel,
look homeward.” And I was by this
dark prophet swayed. No longer
would I flee from the guilty past,
deserting eastward from the gate,
hoping one day to come upon
the other side. Alas, there
seemed no east-west passage to be
discovered. The world all behind me,
I turned toward that Seraphim
Prince, seeking a devious course
which might now return me backward
toward Earth's forgotten secret,
and only paused, between ruin
and repair, so as to take in
history looming before me.

I stood a part of that mirage,
in a Spring that never would last,
when the dead land is teased with
life again, and negligent
Demeter, now dry of tears,
no longer wears the black of her
mourning. Standing alike the grim
and tearful Son of Macedon,
who now peers ‘pon the Indus-End
of his sorrow, wistfully I
mused and pondered back o’er my
recent march, and aversively
was aware that I must return.
Thus, I began, and sought once more
that earthen mound left behind of
my own building. I was wanting
to see what thing might have sprouted.

Along the way of my journey
at Delphi I tarried, looking
for an old wisdom, but found
only a den of brash young
entrepreneuring oracles.
For a Judas' price one could
buy entrail-assured insight
from the whoring seers, but
empty of pocket, I ventured
on without their vended wisdom.

In my travels, I came upon
a seared land before me, a place
whose name I knew not, and yet so
familiar seemed this barren
vista, like the haunting dream of
last-sleep. The story in the sand
betrayed by east-bound footfalls
time's winds had attempted to hide,
as my going encountered
my return. One greeted me
at this wilderness' edge,
a pilgrim from once long ago,
and smiling he welcomed me
from that nefarious city
home unto that desolate-land.
So, I knew this land of bedlam.
Yet no path did I spy, no road,
no bridge to couple myself with
whatever must reside far across
that sterile eternal dust bowl.
Thus, through biting sand I trudged
for to cross this hellish champain.

Wanting devotion, seeking
devotion, hoping devotion
sought me, I plodded, despairing
if I should now see, after all,
the evidence of my spade;
for I was myself a planter,
a pall-bearer, an executioner,
all was my part. From among
the throng at Pilate's feet I
was silent as the horde of
Ciaphasian jurors
bartered bandit for Messiah.
But my silence forgave me not;
for now the day-cock had crowed.
Like the gadfly's hemlock-dikasts,
with my own hands, I lowered
Him into the earth, and planted
the rotting corpse deep, fearing
resurrection. Then away from
profane Peniel I limped,
all unpreserved. Now upon
returning, I hoped not to find
all as I had left it. Now
resurrection I hoped for.

Perhaps by now the Serbian
assassin might be his brother's
keeper, and that Punic Princip might
wear Cain's brand no more. Now might
the world's crosses remove the black
hood of the executioner,
letting rot the Palatine rood of
crucifixion, letting burn
the Greek icon undulating
above the wretched Blitzkrieg creed.
By now that Munich induced-
pledge lent that naive Minister
may prove true in our time. Now might
the tilled ground yield to me it's
strength. Possibly my lands may once
more be in order. But if that
order were again to deceive,
if sagacious history were
again to forsake its hope filled
promise, if the rains were always
to tease the wasteland with only
a drizzle, then I should not wish
for the rain, I should not believe
Old Man History, and neither
should I then to this land return.

But rain I could smell in the air.
as I made my final approach,
I strained to see if there was
life in this land; yet none could I
discover. No prairie shoot bloomed;
no desert serpent crawled upon
his belly. Suddenly I was
standing upon a slight rise, and
was aware that no inverted
footprints continued before me.
Could this be the place? It must be.
Time had packed and settled the mound
I remembered; yet this must be
the beginning, the very spot
where all once ended. I had to
be certain. So I began to
dig --- the immutable earth's
archeologist of forlorn
love, seeker of forgotten
mounds, antiquarian of earth's
sleeping --- and first uncovered
a Marne River stone, still smooth from
the once red water, which washed
away its course edges. Deeper
I exhumed what seemed to be
the curious remains of a
three-legged creature, by nature
unselected. Still farther down
I unearthed the shattered
fragment of a lens, and could still
discern the heretic-curve of
the polished glass, dashed by
the insulted Inquisition.
And the earth shifted along its
journey, and I was nauseous
and unbalanced. Then all was
fine again, Eppur si muove.
At last, in the abiding earth
I found a remnant of rotting
timber, the splintered dogwood-
relic of my past. Adjacent
to this find, lay a half rusted
blade, untethered by passing
time, the shovel of my brazen
labor; and I was then afraid.
No deeper could I probe, for fear
of finding what I sought. It was
there. I knew that it was still there,
and I feared the harrowing
history which must still remain
buried beneath that final
sanctuary of sand. There had
been no resurrection. No dog
had even scratched in the dirt
to retrieve the abandoned bones.
Only I had disturbed here,
in the bare and boundless desert.

Enkidu, my sweet Enkidu,
that thorned herb which was certain to
have restored . . . Forgive me my friend.
I covered the grave once more,
knowing that there was nothing left
to do here, the Rubicon of
separation having been crossed
oh so long ago. Yet I did
yearn for reconciliation,
my sighs filling the air, my tears
dampening this ground where I had
unto repaired, my sorrow
praying forth from my lamenting
heart. Hereon we must understand
each other anew, this one of
transcending death, and I of this
transient life. I do not
wait for you, like some Beckett-tramp
below some wasteland tree. For I
know between us what truth has passed.
With contrition for godslaughter
heavy on my soul, I know ‘tis
only the murderer who may
return, and never the murdered.
The Great Swamp of our beginnings,
emptied of us both, complains of
your silence and my own exile;
for I am the expatriate
of Heaven, and you are Oblomov’s
promised but ne’er seen flaker
who rests forlorn below the tree.

How I wished it were not so, that
I should not see the vengeful stain
meant for that Mistress of Cawdor.
Should I to bed? Should I retire?
For what is there can be undone?
Surely an instant must have passed when
I could have done differently.
Despairing, I looked toward hope
in his grave, and I recalled
the boasting monument of
Shelley's story, half inhumed
in the sand. A thought crossed my
mind, and I said it silently
to myself, "Amen." And then I
realized why I had come back
to this frightful place, why I had
so yearned to return at all
unto this horrid land, unto
this defunct city of lost men.
Not a home-coming, but a leave-
taking was this excursion, a
final valediction unto
my native earth. Never again
could I return to that Eden-
Self, that one now forever stung
of Heaven-Fallen's vile venom,
evermore without, lost always
ever after. Looking over
my shoulder, into the western
sky, I did see --- Nothing.
The sextant useless with no
star fixed above. And I knew then
of stables lost forever to
wandering men. But said the muse,
"Learn it still. Learn now
to navigate without." The great
Sphinx unriddled; the cryptic
Basalt again understood.
Then all was calm. Alone, as each
man soon finds himself; alone and
for us grieves the wind. Without a
Spirit-Maid to follow, nor one
Knight-Errant of the pilgrim's way,
I turned to start the world again,
looked at my own footprints before
me, then looked into my self and
began walking in the other
way, impressing the white new sand.
The sliver of a singular
something caught my squinting eye, and
I bent to excavate it from
the sand, a splinter of my cross-
made spade. With a little spit, I
removed the hour-glass debris.
With the small knife in my pocket,
I hulled a mean hole in the
splinter's tiny end, and placed
the thing upon a slender chain
where a rabbit's foot used to hang,
an act unavailing; but a
paltry man, I could do no more.
Feeling easier, I walked on,
keeping my solitary way.