Trans-Trans-Human Teiresias Urges—Having

drunk black ram’s blood—the twisty ever-in-transit

sword-swinger to heft his oar athwart

a shoulder muscle, strike out [far from goatish

Ithaka, far even from the wavy sea-lord’s

realm] till ocean-threshing implement trans

-itions [syllabic breaks queer too, in Hades]

to a shovel-paddle for sifting hick agri-cult

-uralists’ husky grain. There, of wheat or dust,

a tumulus must rise. Will be oar/winnower

topped. There, earth-shaker gets owings & blinding reaver

rests at last, big stick turned sign of heroes

squandered, towns sacked, a certain gender’s persons

torn from near to sweaty-actual enslavement.

Of suitors spitted & walls, blood-streaky, breached.

All for the cipher man-whore-made of a gold

haired woman’s face. All for, for real, an oily

trade-war. Might this mound be glory, a jot

of OMG great O, re-coded? Say, yes.

We need us some deities in these parts. Need

to make old wrongs [not his fault] right. Now say,

if mythic protag heaps his own grave, moving

per augury’s instruction with his epic

flail, zat what makes almost-undead whole vagrant

crew of unruly sēmata, in every go-round

buried? It [you dig?]as well as him

-self entombed. If so, so we make trans

-mortal that dead-on corkscrew boychik. Make him,

each flipping time we eyeball it, draggy divine.