IN THE GREEN ROOM WITH THE HAY OUT OF A MAGICAL SCARECROW
In the green room with the hay out of a magical scarecrow,
I’m putting tarpaper on my pyramid like a suspicious eclipse.
Tar and honey on a biscuit that breaks like a stale cartouche.
Swoosh. That’s the wing of a sabre in the saddle. The moon’s
in Pegasus. I didn’t think that was possible. Has my head
come off like a narcissus bud at the end of a golf club?
Am I liberated enough? Or is this still the foodstall?
Gotta stop asking that as if I didn’t know any better.
It doesn’t matter. And I’m happy about that. Peasant King
when I’m not Buddha Pinocchio. Wouldn’t want to hurt
his feelings. He’s a friend of mine. I don’t take him for granted.
But you relate to him as the mood suits you. Ah, Cohen,
you lovely man, he’s flexible as a Zen ventriloquist.
An embarrassment of riches. A motherlode. Mountain gold
gleaming in the fissures of the night like a mended teacup.
Mystic scar tissue. The shining goes dark before it blinds you
into a supercharged photonic significance of covert insight
into the nature of life resonating with everything
like an old guitar humming to itself in a corner of dust
though that has a way of making me feel like the sex life of the Hubble Telescope
in a degenerating orbit. Quick. A candle. A moth. Luna.
What are you willing to die for as a way of life?