crackers Of priceless safes, the spiritual slackers, The flash and thunder of front pages! And the gulled millions stare and fling their wages Where they are bidden, helpless and emasculate. And the unilluminate, Whose brows are brass, Who weep on every Sabbath day For Jesus riding on an ass, Scarce know the ass is they, Now ridden by his effigy, The publican with Jesus' painted mask, Along a way where fumes of odorless gas First spur then fell them from the task.  

  

  

      Through the parade runs swift the psychic cackle Like thorns beneath a boiling pot that crackle. And the angels say to Yahveh looking down From the alabaster railing, on the town, O, cackle, cackle, cackle, crack and crack We wish we had our little Sodom back! 

  

  

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      Out of the mercury shimmer of glass Over these daguerreotypes The balloon-like spread of a skirt of silk emerges With its little figure of flowers. And the enameled glair of parted hair Lies over the oval brow, From under which eyes of fiery blackness Look through you. And the only repose of spirit shown Is in the hands Lying loosely one in the other, Lightly clasped somewhat below the breast. ... And in the companion folder of this case Of gutta percha Is the shape of a man. His brow is oval too, but broader. His nose is long, but thick at the tip. His eyes are blue Wherein faith burns her signal lights, And flashes her convictions. His mouth is tense, almost a slit. And his face is a massive Calvinism Resting on a stock tie. They were married, you see. The clasp on this gutta percha case Locks them together. They were locked together in life. And a hasp of brass Keeps their shadows face to face in the case Which has been handed down—      (The pictures of noble ancestors, Showing what strains of gentle blood Flow in the third generation)—      From Massachusetts to Illinois. ... Long ago it was over for them, Massachusetts has done its part, She raised the seed And a wind blew it over to Illinois Where it has mixed, multiplied, mutated Until one soul comes forth:      But a soul all striped and streaked, And a soul self-crossed and self-opposed, As it were a tree which 

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