Kali Yuga

On cracked ancient krater
painted red, men black-
bearded wrestle,
hoist spear and penis
or recline in drapery
drinking wine
from shallow cups

restating thus this vessel’s
earthly purpose.  Keats’ purple
bubbles winking at the brim
and yes they are all
fixed in, forever slim
forever holding the same positions;

and yes the maidens always loath,
the runner always wins,
the wrestlers frozen along the rim,
the satyrs always priapic.

But what does it prove?
That art is eternal? Immutable?
Essential?  Death
in the end does not conquer,
does not shatter?

A silver helmet found
at the bottom of a river,
beside rusted sword blades,
dog and horse bones,
human bones
dung-flesh and blood ghosted away

centuries ago. A warrior,
gore-hero buried here,
strong-blood-and-death lover,
ring-giver, sent to Odin
with his weapons
his torcs, his women,
his slaves, his beasts

in a savage age
not unlike our own :
the age of Kali Yuga,
the age we are trapped in
like still figures
on a painted vase.

And is this too Art?
Is this the stuff
mankind’s dust is
son and father to?
Shards in time,
slime breaking down
to slime.