Aretha

aretha crystal jukebox queen of hymn & him diffused in
drunk transfusion wound would heed sweet soundwave
crippled & cry salute to oh great particular el dorado reel
& ye battered personal god but she cannot she the leader of
whom when ye follow, she cannot she has no back she
cannot . . . beneath black flowery railroad fans & fig leaf
shades & dogs of all nite joes, grow like arches & cures the
harmonica battalions of bitter cowards, bones & bygones
while what steadier louder the moans & arms of funeral
landlord with one passionate kiss rehearse from dusk &
climbing into the bushes with some favorite enemy ripping
the postage stamps & crazy mailmen & waving all rank &
familiar ambition than that itself, is needed to know that
mother is not a lady . . . aretha with no goals, eternally
single & one step soft of heaven/ let it be understood that
she owns this melody along with her emotional diplomats
& her earth & her musical secrets

(Tarantula 1967)