2015 11 01
While trudging misty streets of Boston town
I hear the weeping of a smiling clown
who runs away when I offer my watch,
so I follow him through the labyrinth
where characters from ancient myths and tales
wander together, wearing modern masks.
From swirling mist the face of Anne Bradstreet
glimmers in the glow of iron street lamps
and pours olive oil over my bowed head,
then places broken quill from raven wing
in my pale hand, requesting I complete
vision of history that she began.
I push my way through the howling brass doors
of the Old North Church that pierces dark clouds
on Salem Street, crowded with girls who wear
pointed hats and cloaks winking with red stars,
and on high stage below the bleeding cross
I see best minds of my generation sing.
From swirling fog of chugging smoke machine
emerges Ben who wears fedora crown,
that Humphrey Bogart dropped on Key West beach,
and twirls light silver cane of Fred Astaire,
while Edgar Poe and Thomas Eliot
tap-dance beside him in the spotlight glare.
While images of Lupe Velez gleam
on silver screen of national memory,
Ben plays electric threads of flashing jazz
on glass piano floating on the wings
of laughing doves above the sparkling Seine
where Paris and Lutetia kiss in vain.
I am the hairy talking lizard king
who rose from moonlit stream at dawn of time
and walked the singing shore with lost Lenore
where Johannes Brahms plays wind violin,
and Saturn teaches mute children how to rhyme
though Sappho taught us how to sing love spells.
Appearing next on stage of Old North Church
from Russian steppes of swirling snow and song,
Philip son of Nikolai, with sharp sword
Great Peter forged from bones of laughing wolves,
assumes the lotus stance of blind Siddhartha
and draws a thousand faces on church walls.
Among the crowd of poets preaching verse
I see Joe Green, dressed up like Peter Pan,
flying high on the wire of Deus ex Machina,
proclaiming satires of glorious empire,
while dropping flower petals on our heads,
and chanting spells of love Elvis forgot.
Then from deep graves I see Thomas arise,
dressed in long white robe as the priest of ghosts,
who proclaims, there is one pure sublime truth,
and Edgar Allen Poe is his true prophet,
then God takes off divine mask to reveal
he is Odin as ravens bring him mushrooms.
I stare amused at broken turtle shell
that Hermes formed into a ringing lyre
that vibrates, aching to express new song,
in my trembling hands while sweet witches fly
circles around the Church of Lucifer,
for we are the ones who must spark new light.
Distracted by the dance of Melusine,
I dip my thirsty hands in well of snakes,
and steal another apple from her tree,
then eat while watching the Halloween show
which relates the true history of mankind
from the Big Bang to the wide Flaring Forth.
When I look close at the gold crucifix
I see gaunt face of wizard Ezra Pound
who stares amused at clouds of falling rain
and prays, there is no god outside our brains,
so act without acting in war of life
to reincarnate your soul in new-born child.
To enter universal church of Hermes
is to wander in the vast labyrinth
of human history encoded in myths,
and spiral so deep within your true self
you find you are both Lucifer and Christ,
anointed to bear the great light of truth.