clouds are chariots of mist,
gently parading past the
twisting turnstile of time,
surrounding the sacred valleys
on 5th street where paladins
observe omnipotent mimes
pulling atmospheres out of
the wellsprings of some lucid
this valley like tumbleweed,
shaking hands with Fitzgerald’s many gin bottles,
and serenading Keats with a nightingale’s scream
that resembled Wilde’s echoing, Ireland wit;
unsure of my cause, but willing to travel,
for I saw my wanderlust queen on top the moon’s saddle,
and I knew she approved of this Plutonian dream,
for women bow down to
Huck Finn was there too;
wearing Dylan Ray-Bands
and all-black attire, painting
America on compost mounds
that glued themselves to Taliban spires,
bruising shadows of redwhiteblues
on top this graveyard’s combustible pyre
that reeked of embers green and counterfeit.
Bush mows the sand there, I confess,
and Moses, in rags, fears the afar,
so he climbs the valley’s hills to peak at the stars,
but sees only drones that twinkle, like death,
o’er the valley’s never changing wave of prophets
and the alley’s ever changing rose of bards.
I stared for a moment,
then was plucked by the moon,
and the wind melted me back
into Shakespeare’s last swoon,
that sat in a jar on top the
114th president’s nightstand
where his heroin longed for
his destitute wounds.
“Where the hell did I go?” I wondered,
striking a match to illuminate this bard’s snow-globe.
The light ricocheted throughout the sphere
and blinded each actor who unwittingly crooned:
“Madness in great ones must not unwatched go.”
I met Ophelia here, a junkie now with uranium laughter –
hair like ice, dreams like fire, and hopes like pot-holes
sinking deeper into sulfuric snows.
She sang me a song of ever after,
and Scottie Joplin played a typewriter there –
It stuttered syllables, scribbles — iambic, didactic,
and possessed my ears with its smooth strung out tones,
like a spliff’s misty dance in your ballroom of air,
or my Eckleburg eyes with their subtle green glow.
Forlorn was the feeling, a sort of remnant of her heart,
and I felt required to appease this purgatory with my own
understandings of pain and dearth and prize-less art,
so I read her Hamlet, over and over, till she found her soul.
A light year passed, the globe’s glass dissolved into sand.
I crawled out of the dust with my hungover hands,
and walked amongst rubble of a post-Orwellian world
that was hardly digital, and built on divided gold.
I stood and gazed upon this realm,
eyes starving for earth, or her lush curly hair,
then I peeked at the moon, that astronomical bell,
and saw her weeping there, waiting, as
I maniacally swooned back into the
lucid abyss beneath the chariots of mist
where humans breed hell.