A conspiracy of  gods protects the purlieus

Of my home and yard. I am constantly

Under siege by the forces beyond the row

Of dogwoods at the top of the street.

I can feel the inimical vibrations

From neighbors and politicians and city

Managers and occasional disseminators

Of religious literature who prowl in packs

And even from wayward groups of children

Who have lost their innocence and though

Twelve years old may as well be twelve hundred.

There is such sordid knowledge in their eyes,

These enemies, these collaborators

Against peace and nature. They may dare

Look my way, but they don't dare intrude

Because there is a confederacy of gods

That protects the paradisiacal perimeter

Of my heretical hermitage. Pan rules

Over all. He lives hunkered down on the

Front porch; his terra cotta presence

Hides under the two begonias, and under

The angel wings, one can glimpse

The knobs that are his horns, really

Antennae sending out the "Do Not Enter"

Message, subliminally conveying

"Restricted Area," Sancrosanct Precincts,"

"Holy Ground: Remove your sandals

Or your presences." His hairy haunches

And distended belly suggest life within

These bounds, crucifixes against vampires.

And under him are the other members

Of the pantheocracy, of the coven against

Cravens: there is Francis (a pagan saint

If there ever was one) under the bird feeder

Sending his winged armies--his cardinals,

His jays and tits and chikadees--out

To flash abrupt wings in the eyes of anyone

Contemplating interruption (or shitting

On their cars or heads to make them think

Before succumbing to such a fecund place.

They think, "What does fecund mean anyway?")

There is Buddha who we remember had his vision

Under a Bo tree who is now under the hosta

Next to the driveway. His temple is in

The triangle on the second level of the yard,

The redoubt because there is surely a war going on.

Those looking into my jungle think rain forest

And want to cut it down; they think Mexico

And want to steal my land; they think

Africa and want to enslave; they think weeds

And want to spray DDT or Agent Orange.

But they who violate the territory of'

My terrible triumvirate, my Bermuda Triangle,

Never get out alive. Gods only know where they go.

 

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James Locke

 c/o:
editor

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