Jakob Böhme


Long, stringy black hair in a middle part.
Wizard’s beard. An old, lavender cape taking on light
and wind
as he floats along amid
clouds and the clattering of dusky evening
cathedral bells.

To the local scourge he’s just a shoemaker.

They don’t care about his view from the sky,
the Gates of the Paradisiacal
of Roses,
or the sacred portals of his electromagnetic
wherein resides the Cumaean Sibyl in her virgin apparel
smoking Benson
& Hedges
while surrounded by shoals
of cloud-eating purple
high voltage wires, stargazer lilies and wild orange trees.

They don’t want to know
about that.

What concerns them are the practical
things: bread, candle-stubs,
a clear and definitive
statement: he makes shoes.

Everything else about him is fuss.