nebula
A Gnostic, Occult, and Imaginative Approach to Astrology
 
 
 
 

Arcana:
 

The Skyhook Poems
by

Francis Donald Grabau
( 1968-1972)
 

A Poem Cycle
(1968-1972)

 

( Contents )
 

Skyhook (December, 1969)
The Ebony Pomegranate ( February, 1970)
Mama (November, 1968)
Pigeons (Novenber, 1968)
Song For Faye (October, 1968)
Formula (November, 1969)
Angelís Hair (March, 1969)
Angelís Hair (contíd.)
Aria da Capo (March, 1969)
A-Stigmatism (November, 1969)
Aleph-Null (November, 1969)
Lyric (October, 1969)
Two Fragments (September, 1969)
50B-899-4 (December, 1969)
Flute Rite (December, 1969)
Ritual With Incense And Bells (September, 1969)
Tarantella (January, 1970)
Tarantella (contíd.)
Aphasia ( January, 1969)
"Incidents Of Mirror-Travel In The Yucatan" ( January, 1969)
Lamed (January, 1970)
Glockenspiel (January, 1970)
Shekinah (November, 1969)
Aurora (July, 1969)
Aurora (contíd.)
Song Of The Bone (January, 1972)
 
 
 

  Return to contents

SKYHOOK
 

Somethingís in my head; not
the medulla oblongotta, or
the zygomatic arch, but
a figure. It
burns
like a bone made of mirror,
or a metal
reflecting
itsí smoke. I think
itís a seed
splintered hard there
that wonít shut
on the touch
that it sees as
itself,
and repeats, and
repeats:
Samech,
Samech,
Samech,
-maybe itís
the water disc
that cuts thru wire, deep
like a crutch
made of gold. The Angel
who put it there said
itís not a shrill hole, but
a skyhook. A figure
he found on a railroad, and tempered
to fit to the Moon. Sometimes
I think Iím in
somethingís head.
 
 

  Return to contents
 

 
 
 

The Ebony Pomegranate
 
 

Beware, the Moon is
a jar; a pregnant eunuch lives there
and although heís aloof
he eats wheels, and has been known to play with fire.
In fact, he plays with wands, -the Faerie; but insists
theyíre only words.
 

He claims the bug made him lose himself,
but the bug was also lost.
He says the Moon is godís body
and he canít get out.
He isnít sure about that story
because itís so broad. He tried to get home once
but he says he took the words too lightly.
 

He was hoping to be a missionary
but every time he said the word Ďshoeí
a foot would form itself in his mouth.
He steals these gems because,
he says, heís
Pataphysical.
His friends claim heís a real card,
O
a bit cryptic
but otherwise just typically banal.
 

He believes he can float in A void; he hallucinates
Lions, and Eagles, and Bulls
on high, -all around, even
Angels.
Heís schizophrenic, the man
in the Moon in
the
ebony pomegranate.
 
 

  Return to contents
 

 
 

MAMA
 
 

Snow covered the yard; blue
at itsí edge, the cracked
glass
caught her eye, glistened
-sharp
in the door. Mirrored, she
stood, raised
the brick (dough
thick
on her fingers; rolls
unfinished on the table). It
fell,
-odd icicle,
upright in her foot. Stuck
hot
thru the cotton slippers
to the wood. Blood
went red across the air; it
puddled the floor.
 

She did not die; but most of all
I
remember: Mama.
 
 
 

  Return to contents
 
 
 
 

PIGEONS
 
 

Caught,
 

out of the air, they
cooed
in their dark
cages; eyes
fixed,
crusted beaks beating
the windows;
metal-bound feet
moving
thru delicate molt of ash
drippings.
Sometimes
one would die; Iíd
tie
a string around itsí neck, drag it
to the thorn tree,
hang it
there.
My rocks
tore
feathers
off itsí breast, cut
at itsí flesh. The hulk
fell,
-head still suspended
there. Some
strange secretion
from itsí eyes. Flies
blackened itsí wings,
things
crawled out of the weeds, moved
into it. All
my sons
are claw-footed Angels, dried
semen, doves
stuck
like snot in a sheet.
 
 

  Return to contents
 
 
 

SONG FOR FAYE
 
 
 

Skull cheeks, tan
of face, she
slithers
-great glass lizard; broken
upright,
over the rooms. Spiders
climb cinders, they break
black
behind those eyes. She wears
phosphorescent lips, -jellied; they
bite clocks. She
mouths obscene fairytales, scrambles
among the bones. Hands
clutched
across her breasts, -rats
suckle there. She
tears them, laughing! Shards
of mirrors suspend
her arms. They envelope
it; they
reflect. She
catches
dreams in her teeth; fingers
them thru the hole. Unmarvellous
mother
aborting visions, she
talks love -cuts
open the head. Smiles
drop (brittle
keys) rusted
off her tongues. Sniffs
the hair of the scrotum. Plants
her black babies there. They
eat.
 
 

  Return to contents
 
 
 

FORMULA
 
 
 

Fish
tongue eye,
Rose
tongue tree,
Glass
tongue moon;
suck.
 

Dream
sing blood,
Shine
sing black,
Mirror
sing crack;
break.
 

Fly
touch tooth,
Angel
touch hair,
Bone
touch toe,
caught.
 

Ring
eat water,
Blue
eat hole,
Oil
eat silver,
swim.
 
 

  Return to contents
 
 
 

ANGELíS HAIR
 
 

( Genus: Coscuta
Gronovii; convulvulus
family;
thread-like, leafless. )
 
 
 

1.)
 

Sometimes, in the late summer, perhaps
we are tempted
deep
into
some thicket
where the jasmine-scented heads, or
the fragrant spikes of
the love vine
twist
their small suckers high
above our heads.
Originally springing
from the ground (curious
herbs!) they
attach
themselves to some plant; climb, and
suspend from the
air; sever
all connection with Mother Earth; snap
off, or
wither
away
the primal stem
below.
 
 

2.)
 

This is
the purple thicket; silence
ascends it in cool
laments; the thrush tongue
flutes. Songs
catch in their notes, project
like teeth
into air. There
are voices here that
breathe
~~~~~endless
successions of
petals
blow
on the seas. Sometimes
the door falls out, leaves
gurgle; the eyes
float thick sounds syncopated to
the movement of limbs
inverted in a bottle, or a
rapid convulsion of stars. Snow
falls like splintered glass thru
the dull moon blossoms, forever
a wish
that we dream. This
is the crystal decay of
vision, the rise
of the ashened hand. Mouths
dissolve here, the shoulder
drops; calm
descent of
thin
nets.
 

Return to contents
 
 

Aria da Capo
 

 One,
Two,
Three:  -Flute
player, pipe up
A

gimpy tune; no matter
angels whisper blue
dreams in your ear, -hover there: gas
breath of the oven
clings,
  it clings.
Thump on stage with that
one wood leg; it 
floats like neon
jarred in
  pale porcelain, -a pickled
cauliflower godhead: refrigerated
there
to prevent spoilage.

 

Pipe,
player; no matter

broken christmas cookies
sleep; lie candied like magic
silver balls: a gift from mother, all
ribboned in a black shoe
box. No
limb hard enough ? 

-come
flute yourself to sleep: tinkle
bells, tinkle !
 
 

 Return to contents
 
 

A-STIGMATISM
 
 
 

Itís raining.  

There are holes
in the holes in
my head. Little
silver fish swim there
intermittently,
like
waterdrops
quick
thru a windowpane.
 

My eyes
were never sapphires.
I donít think itís fair;
everything I see is full of splintered
refractions,
like secrets in
stained glass lilies. All the seraphim have
asthma; they are
wheezing.
There are too many pineapples.
There are too many pinwheels.
Itís all too concentric:
pinecones,
pinworms.
I want
to swallow god, or at least
discover something
linear.
Trees

are a myth; donít
believe it. Someone
is bleeding. Would you
 

like a poem ?
 
 
 

Return to contents
 
 
 
 

ALEPH-NULL
 
 
 

1.)
 

A tongue moves
over this
space; it
drops
 

seeds: -look,
 

2.)
 

how they squirm
open. The air
here
breathes, is
fertile, is
 

-is not this;
 

3.)
 

is
silence; feeds
them. This
is
a latticework; these
interstices
are roses. Or
maybe you say
they are
 

patterning. Go
 

4.)
 

slow; hear. This
is
all.         Over
.
 

 Return to contents
 

 

LYRIC
 

O,
your hair
falls out of the Tower
like water
into my dreams,
Mom.
There are
bells,
and I rise
a capella, wet
gold, and a ruby on
my tongue.
O,
the touch of it
over and over
wets a network of fire
in the leaves,
where it pours
from the roots of your feet.
Listen,
Iím going to where
the low ring
hums in the sky,
and Iíll wait there.
O,
itís Gothic,
Mom: Daddy
is watching
from the bushes.
If I open my mouth
weíll dissolve.
O,
the rose in his teeth
has turned black
Mom. Mom,
I know; Iím trying
to tell you.
 
 

Return to contents
 

TWO FRAGMENTS
 
 
 

1.)
 

He had arthritis. I had
asthma.
He drove the biggest truck on the block.
I had asthma.
He never knew his father.
I had asthma.
She
loved us both.
 

2.)
 

Thank your father
she would say, see
all the trouble
he goes thru
for you;
your father loves you
too,
thank your father. I
never knew
then
what to do.
 

3.)
 

It was psychosomatic!
 
 
 

 Return to contents
 

  
 

50B 899-4  

Tear it, and
out of the envelope comes
LOVE,
son: a plump,
gold duck; itsí webbed
feet
limp, -one
black eye embossed
deep
in itsí head like
a dull bullseye
in a copper circle:
 

ON YOUR BIRTHDAY, SON
 

Big
gaudy letters, two
golden cattails, and a swamp
of dark brown cardboard. HAPPY
BIRTHDAY
SON, and a
flutter of burnished wings; HAPPY
BIRTHDAY SON, with
LOVE. A Hallmark
from mother. 

 
   Return to contents
  

FLUTE RITE
 
 

Under the road
where I was born
is a hole.
 

In the hole
under the road
where I was born
is a Tower.
 

In the Tower
in the hole under the road
where I was born is
a box.
In the box is a long roll of blue
toilet paper.
 

At night,
if I play my flute right,
the toilet paper climbs up out of the box,
and unrolls into Infinity. Little pink
letters
march out of the flute
down the blue path
into Harmony, -the house of Beauty.
Eight
roads
intersect
at that junction.
 

All of this is in the form of a tree
made out of popsickle sticks. Sometimes
I think itís important
to talk
to yourself.
 
 

 Return to contents
 
 
 

RITUAL WITH INCENSE AND BELLS
 

Agnus
Agnus
Agnus, O
Vast Mystical Snag ! But for you,
Lamb,
I could breathe, howl, spit out stars.
You wear my sins like little gems
around your neck:
Pecatta.
A sword pierce your hoof ! Your dull eyes are bells:
each toll is,
each toll is,
each toll is, (pecatta)
Music.

All old now,
a tuba mirum, a hill of broken
letters,
tongues,
heads,
feet
flows (monotonous) from your open side. O
dona
dona
dona, -give us
yourself,
absurd and haloed on every page: Onanism,
a sweet Trinity. Not the book of life,
only a Catechism, a catchy-chasm, a cross
in each cloven foot. You may think
youíre a Symbol,
butt
your just so much choice
beef, Angus. No lamb at all; not
even a poem. Behold, out of my mouth
-rococco-
floats this jewel studded
Monstrance !
 
 

Return to contents
 
 

  TARANTELLA

 Metamorphosis
Ding-Dong
Death
Salt
The forest is getting darker
Mars is a Tower in my mouth
This is the voice of Goldylocks
Welcome to Shrevesport
Itís anal regression
Thereís been a murder
Get yourself a Diamond Sutra
This is the Emerald City
Come in
Get out
Weíre all crazy
Dead
Totoís gone
Bang
Sniff
Sorry
Thereís been a murder
Latent humour
Donít you read the papers
Itís snowing in the poppy fields
Broomsticks are astronauts
Hopscotch
Sleeping Beauty
Take some Latin
Requiem
Valium
Laugh
Joy is liberating
Shrevesport
Thereís been a murder
Humpty Dumpty
Lachrymosa
Mary had a little lamb it's
a horse of a different color
Giddyup
Le Spectre de la Rose
Psychology
Metamorphosis
Ding-Dong
The elevator broke
Diarrhea
Buy a Munchkin
Find the Dharma
Rent a Dirigible
Do a Zen trick
Come on
Anything
Ha-Ha
Dies Irae
Dies Illa
Be a smile on your umbrella
Fish & Chips
Eat candy
Ecology
Shut up
Be literary
Bring me the rocketship of the Wicked Witch
Bring me the East
Kiss your ass goodbye
Get a good breakfast
Get enough sleep
Follow the Yellow Brick Road
Blow up a building
Jump over a candlestick
Join the Revolution
Be a Queer
Count little bluebirds
Pee on the Wizard
Sanctus Sanctus
Open the trapdoor
Metaporphosis
Thereís been a murder
Live in the moment
Be an artist
Swallow the Hourglass
Turn off this tornado
Belch sand
Ding-Dong
Shit
!
 
 

  Return to contents
 

 

APHASIA
 
 

Sing, O my
tongue; sing
pages, sing lingua, sing
spina, clavi, lancea -O what
the fuck, sing Pange Lingua;
sing roses that trample the oxes,
sing purple oscillations of scaffolds,
sing wafers full of anemones; sing! Come on,
sing, -sing anything; sing a song of sixpence, or the chant
of electric cicadas, -jewelled and strung thru the eye. Sing! Sing, O my tongue
your Cantata:

Dear Holy Wizard,
Whereas I cannot find
Oz, I
send you these:
two
(ruby red)
feet.
For you, my
nuncle. I wish they would click,
I wish they were more: Oremus, O let us
say more words, say big ones, say fine ones -O let us say my
ones: Magna, O Magna, O Magnificata Anima
Maya. Pure series of implacable
sounds: Rosaries, a synthetic
syllabic song. I
know a better story:
 

Return to contents
 

" Incidents Of Mirror-Travel In The Yucatan "
 
 
 

this space is

a toilet; the words
here are small
turds. This
stinks,
you say: well,
-itís Time
I flushed it
away.
This is:
-TIMELESSNESS-
 

movements, vowels, all
illusion; real
toilets
are not
poetic, no
 

shit!
 
 
 

  Return to contents
 

 

LAMED
   

In my head I have built myself a forest;
in my forest thereís a secret room
where a bird sings.
And the bird sings thru a wooden tree.
And the wooden tree is eating the bird.
And the forest is
watching me.
I have made my tree out of outlines;
itsí roots are sunk in the air
where they suck, and choke from the light. I think
youíve heard all this before.
 

But the fire wonít stop burning.
I have looked for the nail to open the moon with
and let the water pour in, but the wind
keeps confronting me.
All the limbs of the tree are burning; they are tangled
in old strings of light. Strange people
are chewing on the leaves. Always
they walk thru the forest moving
in circles, always their arcs
intertwine. I have
talked all this over with the bird. She has
invited me to sing with her in
the secret room. Iíve had too much
of all this. If I lay down in the mud
itís no good, -each time I fall thru
the holes to the sky. Lately,
Iíve thought of killing the bird. She
knows it; sheís taken to hiding, I only hear
her sharp notes. And a few minutes ago
the room was full of the noise of a spider
kissing the lips of the tree.
 
 
 

  Return to contents
 
 

GLOCKENSPIEL
 
 

Eyes
blink; screw
together
to dance a syntax:
we are all fucked
(laughter)
a point within
circles, -they
encircle us. Ring
around the rosey. This is
a stance,
a cross-word
puzzle, a pocketfull
of metronome. In fact,
a clash of brass cymbals.
But itís not a scheme
at all; itís me,
GLOCKENSPIEL !
 

I think thought is a bastard,
a perpetual idiot
child. It
rocks:
( hip-hop, hip-hop,
hip ) on a
would,
wood,
horse.
 
 
 

Return to contents
 
 

SHEKINAH
 
 

Now I
go thru the moon
like a dream of your water.
You give me your
Amulet,
your
teeth
in my head.
Millions of Angels
are dancing, are dancing,
a nimbus
surrounds us of
mirrors.
The visions
are gilded, are
tangled in
dreams,
in the trees, in the moons
and they crash thru the stained glass to
circle and circle;
a movement
of
fluids and filaments
and
bubbles.
The bubbles, the
nipples,
the Mothers, the Mothers
are seeking
the dome, and
they tell us, they tell us:
TABOO !
 
 

Return to contents
 
 

AURORA
 
 

-an impulse from
nothing, from nowhere; a rising,
an Ariel song, or a
dawning. A movement,
a simple out-breathing, an
Aleph, unaspirate sound
enigmatic. A circle, a
charmed flow of air in
continuous streams thru
a pharynx. A
maze, allolalia, an
actual dancing of Angels. A structure of
intricate syllables, each
a succession of all of
the one, -sort of each, any
one.
Ouroboros;
I am that I am that I
am: an Anagram
tongued in a magic of prisms, and
echoed, and etched, and
awaken me from it.

Always
a turning, a pulsing, a
rattle of atrophied flutes off of or
into a wind: Cornucopia,
nothing. A
Zero, -incredible form for
a feeling, a
tongue or a
claw; an access, a voice for
a passage to
Father,
Abraxas,
Abraxas, a series
perpetually ending an
abstract of where it began.
 

A round, a
ring, or an
hymn: Adonai,
Elohim:
-Son, O my son
itís the wind in the trees. O my song,
itís the wind; no
itís the trees; no
itís revolving around and into the sound of
my mother, my father. An oral
stigmata, a coral
boned language, O
a joining, a
kind of a blending, a
changing of ĎAí into a
fathomless breathing. An eye
that is blind and that
covers itself with a cipher. A rhythmical
note: nought. Not
an ellipse, but a
song, O
a constant repeating of sounds, a search
for a place where a breathing
alone is considered. A
spot. Stop:
An Ox tripped over a mountain, a dish
ran away with a spoon, and a cow
jumped into the Moon. A
joke, or
a Joker; a eunuch of count in
the score of a game: Oz. A
skyhook, a sun, or a stone. A round of
Anemones playing a
tune, or a
hearbeat. A body in
freefall, a
checkmate, a
fool, always
a song or a
a circle
 

 Return to contents
 

.
SONG OF THE BONE
 
 
 

Where are you, Father,
where are you ?
I cannot feel you, Father.
Father,
I cannot feel.

You've become a letter, Father,
a window. I can't see
you. I see the fire, I see the
emptiness I look beyond.

But I do not look beyond you,
Father. You have
taken my tongue
into your own;
into the bone,
Father,
into the bone.
 

You have hidden in the hood of the mountain,
Father, soon
you will hide in the stone.

The star,
Father,
the cold star
covers your face. It's light

freezes around you. Your staff
dies in your hand.
 

I can't move in this space,
Father. The cube
encloses me; it
cuts me
off.

I'm not part of this
mountain, Father. You know
me; I must
breathe.

I must go down to the river
where the rain is falling,
where the rain is falling
Father, and
the moon is coming up.

I must reach you, Father,
you must touch me.
I love you,
Father. Father
I am your son.


Home

Send me Email to: starpath3@earthlink.net