Archive
01/12/10 - (2)
Maze
The Queen of Hearts's formal-garden maze, Suspended within the four corners of a dusty frame, Like an Escher palazzo within a Piranesi prison Within an Albers Homage, Entices, entraps, enraptures me, The spirit of my imagination's corporeality, anyway, As if I were somewhat more curiouser Than all too curious Charles Dodgson, That provocative amateur photographer of adolescent girls, Not least of whom was Alice Liddell, The child he immortalized, for bad or zany-best worse, In literary history's cryogenic fantasy bank, To be thawed, every generation or so, Whenever stifled, cloyed Stepford people cry out, Scream for the slightest freedom, release, From their lives of Terri Schiavo desperation.
Ah, but I'm not the Hatter of Badness/Madness; Indeed not. I'm a very rare Brer Rabbit, with a wild hare, Staring into the formal-garden maze, with despair, Terrified I'm about to have my penis Lorena Bobbitted, My balls mistaken for Dr. Kevorkian's patients Begging to be euthanized ("Off with our heads!"), Yet all the wile's while excited, inspired, About the prospect of being upsized, downsized, revitalized, As the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man, Bib the Michelin Man, the Pillsbury Dough Boy — A larger-or-smaller-than-life messiah of the Ecstasy crowd Hoping to find nirvana under a toadstool. So here I am, tonight, spacing out, on psilocybin mushrooms, In and out, out and in, up and down My Mad Hatter mind's ever-expanding/contracting rabbit hole, Doing what I can to define my location, measure it, Comprehend the oddity of my size changes, Which come from eating and drinking and smoking Those anomalies rendering me, equally, Gigantic and minuscule, puissant and feeble, Able to scamper, skelter helter ("I'm later than late as hell!"), Through the Queen of Hearts's formal-garden maze And arrive outside the four corners of her dusty frame, Not hatted, not mad, rather naked as a white rabbit Fleeing that relentlessly encroaching black shadow He mistakenly attributed to his own forward progress, Instead of death's retrogressive devolution, Which, in the end of ends, will have overtaken him, All of them in that wonderland of grandiose and tiny Alice — Dodgson, Liddell, Schiavo, Kevorkian, Bobbitt, Stay Puft, Bib, Dough Boy, Escher, Piranesi, and Albers included — all except me. I still deludedly believe I'm immune to time.
01/12/10 - (2)
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