2015 08 06
I stand alone on high peak of Parnassos
and survey the world through my broken glasses,
then proclaim epic verse to windy plain
as lightning strikes my head in gusting rain.
I wander in the ruins of ancient hall
where Athena stood before marble wall
and held high tricky flame of liberty
to lead revolts against dire poverty.
I pluck rusty strings of Hermetic lyre
then race my car on highways in third gear
to find the swamp where modern poets tramp
and flee blind Cronus with his broken lamp.
My epic is the mountain of grand tales
where lyrical weeds sprout by nameless trails.