canto 96. throwing out the dishwater

jericho trapped; some vague torturing; invoking the magic fleece

things were looking desperate
and we’ve got, here, to indicate
(somehow) jericho’s feelings — 
flummoxed, trapped, hemmed in — 
on the run, relentless fate — 
not just metaphorical weight,
he was also cornered physically — 
clipped by clouds and mountain peaks,
cluttered inside the dead goats
and other ice-bound mental states
(all the philosopher’s formulae,
frozen, useless, orbiting)

somehow, jericho gets captured
(skipping a bit, over, faster — 
i’m getting tired with this story) — 
tied to rack, a chair, or stone,
he was about to get himself tortured,
by jupiter or iris ordered — 
and, etc, etc, cords and knives — 
crows eating out insides — 
vengeance, etc, from the heavens — 
showers of blood, and intestines — 
gratuitous, predatory germs — 
chains, wheels, pulley turns — 
torment, horrible, you know, token — 
this is the part with jericho broken

nobody is, are they, really? — 
especially these kinds of movies — 
we get to the scene where the hero,
on the floor, in blood and bones — 
flashes, plays his final card — 
whether it’s that one last charge,
a punch, a cut, or hidden pistol — 
whatever it is, he will, willful,
open eyes, summon strength,
throw some dust into their face — 
for nothing else, some time to breathe — 
in this case, the magic fleece

the magic fleece was supposed to summon
a cloud of flies, but that’s disgusting,
and, honestly, counterproductive — 
i’m just sick of the destruction — 
so, change it, that’s the fun
of making shit up, manuscript-ing,
it can be what we wish it be — 
in this case, an idea,
a wish, a leaning, or a need — 
for peace, if only with one’s brain — 
(these kind of gestures rarely fly,
but it’s a book and not real life)

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