The Earth-Soil-Borne Vibrato
The oversized lawn mower
of the housing district
Tuesday-rumbles
like the gigantic bumblebrahmin of legend
while I revisit
the migraine-magical Star Maker
of Olaf Stapledon
over my shoulder,
and the coffee carried here
in its mug
still awaits its entrance
into the human body
with all my gathered names & epithets
The bumblebrahmin
impregnates the morning
with its earth-soil-borne vibrato,
entering the ribcage
with massive massage;
the locally pre-orgiastic handling
of the all
through defenseless chakras
and life’s ramrod bittern-panic;
the breastwork more than insufficient
when the starlight in Stapledon’s text
lifts the author out of himself,
into new dimensions
The root-scissors
of the brahmin-bumblebee
play densely across the day’s underside,
like a hovercraft
through the archipelago’s system
of bays & fjards
I feel Earth’s bloodstream heating
through humus & blue clay
– the veritable saraband of the primordial –
deep in the relaxed will of the cosmos,
when the coffee’s black face
looks into my maw
and the brahmin
– through the minutes of grass-memory,
becoming duration’s
Morton-Feldman-compositional evaluation
of temporal bodies –
lays down layer upon layer
of dense crossings
while the sky rinses light
over the obligations
and abandonments
of societal beings
The motorways bind the landscape together
as in a bast basket,
and the bumblebrahmin drifts off
like a nap-drowsed vigil
in an angel-drone liturgy
– The truth stands written
on the garbage-room door
Poetry by Ingvar Loco Nordin
Written on 2026-05-19 at 10:48
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