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Asked the magician for her
hand. An older text. The con-
fusion runs deep. Nu-go-eye-o?
Who are you? The pen-dragon.
Again. Nothing new on this earth.
The same old song and dance.
Notes from the deepest space.
Traveling. Ain’t got no home. A
blooming cloud of dust. The Big
Dipper. No horn of plenty. Chased
round and round the Round Table.
Her final broadcast. Repeating.
The promise of something better. Any-
thing not tied down. Filled my pockets with
your green green corn. Marched away from
that damn-ward sun. A rebellion short lived.
Jailed and forgotten. Didn’t he die? A hurri-
cane turns inside itself. Fool’s clothes un-
der all that armor. Let me see the mark death
made, Poor Lazarus. Alive in itself. Dancing.
The monastery was at hand. Moving counter-
clockwise. No-body was happy. Backwards
as the day was long. Never got to say good-
bye. Roses in my rusty helm. The horses all
gone to seed. Rescued her from what? The only
question worth asking. Kisses sweet as wine.
Of course the end had come. Ravens on a picket
fence. Waiting for her call all day. The lawns were
freshly mowed. A heart-land turned to dust.
Tired of these Victorian Homes. Voices in
the other room. Returned to the forest. Made
green eggs and ham. Knew The Grail was watch-
ing. A quest-ion but not for me. Come out come-
out whatever you are. Followed the ghost to
Christmas past. Things my brother knew. I was
once a knight of the Round Table. Ate until
there was no-more. A fool in his armor. Waiting.
These poems are from the manuscript The Dustbowl. Poems from this series have been published in Jacket 37, Blackbox Manifold, and Dusie. A selection from this manuscript was read at SoundEye 2009: http://www.youtube.com/watch#!v=MrYDZMSOJJo&feature=related Jim Goar’s latest book is Seoul Bus Poems (Reality Street). He edits the online journal past simple.