PHENEX. - The
Thirty-Seventh Spirit is Phenex (or Pheynix). He is a great Marquis,
and appeareth like the Bird Phoenix, having the Voice of a Child. He
singeth many sweet notes before the Exorcist, which he must not
regard, but by-and-by he must bid him put on Human Shape. Then he
will speak marvellously of all wonderful Sciences if required. He is
a Poet, good and excellent. And he will be willing to perform thy
requests. He hath hopes also to return to the Seventh Throne after
1,200 years more, as he said unto Solomon. He governeth 20 Legions of
Spirits. And his Seal is this, which wear thou, etc
The burning house
rebuilds itself in the dark.
Crawls back up from
ash and mud
and the ghost-ship
windows
of 1368 norfolk
light up the crazily
tilted mailbox
the ditch, the
gravel half moon drive
the mushroom rotten
bench
inside, the rusted
piano wires
unburn to bright
silver
tune themselves,
play “beautiful
dreamer”
in ponderous time
play “shall we
gather at the river”
the crowd of radios
sing hosannas
to be back from the
dark,
the flame crawls
back into the electrical outlets
and coils to sleep
inside the Cathode ray tubes
and welding tanks
the rags unrot and
sinuously writhe on the bedroom floors
the old papers and
glass, the sewing machines and mattresses
the washers and
dryers and a hundred kirby vacuums, the broken mirrors
crawl out of the
catfish pond
and slink across the
grass
rank kitchen of moss
covered pots
the bones of a
thousand mice
My old jacket with
the silver-sprayed Anarchy sign
my rain-warped
Rembrandts pulled from the garbage
my golden fish swim
in their drawer
my weed, my bottle
rockets, my Jack Daniels
pepto pink walls and
dog-smelling carpet worn thin
inside, I am dead,
and singing.
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