Archive
12/15/11
A Vague Approximation of Clarity, Amidst a Spasm of Infinite Confusion
Tonight, halfway through this disappearing-ink December, Confined in a restaurant ranting, screeching, howling, bellowing, Like an insane asylum in a Tennessee Williams play, With the Christmas season's officious, meretricious giddiness, My mind finds its deepest cerebrations, lucubrations, rudely violated, As if its psyche were being brain-raped By agencies of Satan, Adolf Hitler, and God only knows what Gestapos.
I can't locate my identity's winter coat, gloves, attaché, So I can flee to home, the serene silence of my dreamless sleep. Indeed, I realize that my notebook and Bic pen Have gyved me, like San Pietro in vincoli, to this booth, And are insisting that I create, from this dimensionless den of din, This monstrous pandemonium, lunatics' ospedale, Bedlam, Some modest piece of Keatsian or Mozartian genius.
But as my ballpoint scurries frantically, desperately, blindly, Across the blue lines of these Boorum & Pease Record palimpsests, It only leaves, in its skittering wake's brackish backwash, Pieces of feces that bear a vague resemblance to rosary beads, Save for the fact that they're bleeding, As if leaking from artesian wells deeply seated beneath my eyes, Filling the aquifers supplying the skies beneath me, with acid tears.
Tonight, halfway through this cuckoo's raucous December, Stuck inside the craziness of this berserk terra non compos mentis, I write my heart and guts out, my balls and ass off, Hoping to discover where whoever I am is located, hiding, So that I can quit this dissolute existence as risk-prone composer, Return to God's solitude, and reestablish the nexus Between my evanescence and His presence of celestial endlessness.
12/15/11
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