by jim perkinson, on psalm 19 and john 2:13-22

what is this language the psalmist,
in fervor, trumpets forth like a meteor?
it is loud today, and harsh as silence,
reverberating, pounding, whispering,
like a flame going up a pine, or a wave
on a city street in flood, as unseen as
a virus, or potent as a blizzard in texas
indeed, these have no words
they have no need of words
they have no need of bombast and advertising

for they speak everywhere
and we are told of old, that the great
untold set a pavilion in the deep, a shrine
for the sun on decline, edging down
the upper dome in canaan, to plunge
head-long and grinning beneath the surf
in the west, running the course like a
groom from a brides’ bed, laughing
and hot, scattering light like rain
and grass, before going under
the ancient rhythm of night, and we
forget, inured in our screens and dread
preferring pixel to wild fractal, even
in the citadel of hubris called capital,
showing its quirks and feints in squirrel
trysts and sparrow dances before their
chosen mates and like
a pigeon exactly in this waking season
crapping on a downtown building in
defiance of official proscription of graffiti
jesus goes south from the cana wedding feast
of peasants wallowing in wine and
ribaldry to terrify the temple-grind of priests
and currency-exchanging geezers
putting god inside a shekel, and doves
inside a circle of twine, to be offered
for sale to the poor refused the door
unless they defer their debt with blood
and payment, ensuring his own ultimate
interment in the great mother encasement
a man going down like the sun, merely for
daring shine like the time of jubilee arrived
like the order of the sky is gift
and the preoccupation of the earth is fest
and the supplication of the waters
to give relief to thirst and the stars
to guide hearts and feet and receive ancestors
and grief and birth the past anew
and the task of a human one to honor
the majesty and simplicity of this
bounty like gratitude and sharing-in-kind
is the greatest sign and science ever
a soldier of the time such as we seek
to define and become, could offer
but for us
for the modern mind
for the techno-fetishing line of
self-aggrandizing behinds such as
most of us are, all this
celebration of soil and air and river
and seed and lair of octopus and
beetle and marsupial, suckled by
the milk-lavishing giver of gravity
and breath, is too ordinary and minor
to be of interest, much less willingness
to care and battle and end up strung up
like a prophet whose name we revere
and end we abhor and avoid
and yes, me too—as the great
four billion-year-old womb of this world
now shudders with plans that may
core us like the apple we stole so
long ago—what to do, except return
to the loom, understand the tomb
is also the loam of new possibility
and hope what small pebbles of beauty
and community we can dare tender
are enough to secure a worthy destiny
alongside all the other little ones
whose custody and majesty this troubled
planetary wonder continues to nurture
and sprout every single day
after all, the sun, this morning, once more
did rise with a shout!
is there any other advocate
that has more clout?