Poem By albert b. casuga
Still points are there where you want them still –
not in earth, water, fire, nor air.
Lust as death to Rev. Fernández dictum,
tonsure as navel is worm or form, as God is.
“Cramp on my navel defies the argument
of tonsure combed away, talced lock and crucifix
counterpointing – tonsure to navel turning,
garment-soutane for the night’s purpose
nuded to caprice.”
Páscua-Sánchez, a prancing bull, believes:
“Not good nor evil the flower sprung,
but vile the tongue of wave that laps
the crack of soil dampened into limbs of sand.
So, soil is sand, is laving wave, is Sea cupping
the bowels of the blue blue hills, and you blended
gutlike as earthfire with the sad acid sun.”
Movement of movement moves
to trace the face of a dying clock.
Still point is point of steel,
a pause between hickory & dickorydock.