Outside the news cycle

by PATRICK REARDON

Army Bob went in search of Army Bob in the alley 
behind the brothel, in the McDonald’s corner booth, 
in the dark garage, under the porch hiding, on the 
sidewalk to the Columbus Park lagoon, within the 
fold-door closet of childhood, beneath the relentless 
fall of sleet, beside the River of Babylon, in the 
sacristy of St. Thomas Aquinas Church in the six a.m. 
weekday dark robing for the altar, in the ambulance 
to the hospital where he was born with a caul, beside 
the shoemaker’s last on the floor asmell of leather, 
beyond the No One Forest.

In the far distance: Butterfly-man, evil motive, dead 
harvest. Pretended wife, negotiated burial place, 
point made and remade.

Some say: Leave the infant under the bush.

One-Cent gathered innermost blessing, gathered the 
dew of the earth and the flesh of heavens, the smell 
of chocolate near Cabrini-Green, the piss smell of the 
elevators, the smell of raiment in the Amvets store, all 
brown cattle, gathered the bargain of sinners, the 
counting of saints, belief, patience, yearning. The 
communion of voters.

If Boccaccio wrote Latin, Luther wrote Latin, if Eliot, 
Austen, Joyce, Hemingway, Morrison, Dylan,
Dickinson 
wrote Latin.

Every Joseph is a pain in the ass as he gets things
done, 
dreaming of his name rising up the wall over all
others, 
each of those bowing. Trespass, blood, Potiphar’s wife.

Some say: Walk, stand, sit.

The first angel was mistaken for the Unnamable.
Another 
first angel appeared at the corner of 79th and
California, 
near the weed lot at the corner overgrown with
broken 
shards, to a two-year-old with a full diaper, running
away 
from supper. A third first angel told of Philistine
integrity.

Some say: Revolution is sexy. So is the American
Dream. 

Lucy measured loss of loam, wrote with a shard of
jewel, 
studied the lump’s cold core. She magicked with the
asp 
at the breast, disguised the switchblade pocket, wrote
a 
book about the nun in the forest. Fifteen runners
were 
caught in the dragnet and led to the enclosure. She 
discovered, pulling into her garage, she had driven 
home without any lights.

The well-proportioned nymph of shadow, son of
mountain, 
twin of goddess brittle. Bird flies over the unburied.

Some say: Breath, planet signs.

Denmark Jones and the others were told never to say
the 
name of her at the center of the multi-vaulted treasure 
room, never to be unlocked. The Adversary moved in
next 
door into the high-rise along Kingshighway, a quiet
sort.

Some say: Take the low highways home.

Army Bob went in search of the Queen of Sheba, Eve
and 
Cleopatra, the sullen boulder goddess demanding
nothing 
less than bodies on the block, weathered skulls. Went
in 
search of the tall silence. Went in search of Army Bob 
leaving now for distance. Went.