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There is a new mythology emerging, Howling from the hind end of the pack, Scorching the composted leavings Of established orthodoxy as a pillar of flame Showing the way for true rock & rollers. It’s a faith to be reckoned with, A Force with a capital FUNK, Running renegade from the reservation. The rebel has been reborn. He’s The Killer come to Harlem In the bottom of the ninth On the Short Rib Special from Detroit. He roll like an eighteen wheeler With two blown tires. Got a wine glass for the rhythm And a shot glass for the soul. He writes all the old stories Plus a few you never heard. He’s a high priest in white face Full of biscuits and grits, With sundry degrees from learned institutions. He pitched his letters sideways From the first time on, and the curve he throws is dicey, With so much of such like, As to ghost between the batter and the plate. At heart he’s black African Of the deepest, darkest kind. He goes by Jupiter Apollo On the chicken feet and chitlin circuit. He’s all you need for dinner When the bottle’s been uncorked. He goes heavy on the hot sauce, But has a warm spot for girlish delights. He’ll roast the meat of the matter And lay it out on the table wood. He drinks cheap box wine From a sterling silver goblet; That’s just the way he is. He’s a published philanderer With papers to prove it. But he won’t disparage his ethnicity To words on a t-shirt. His appearance is not so much martial, As Cossack-like. He comes with just a thin pamphlet of back story, Being used to living out of pocket on the cheap. He wrought a fusillade of acorns From the Charter Oak Last time his wind kicked up a ruckus, And cracked some tempers at the club house With a vine-wood cudgel Because their manners begged for intervention. He likes to set himself at a point From which it’s an equal distance To the first abstraction in any direction. Any point on his number line could be zero. He’s taken Easter Monday hikes Among the bluffs and ravines Behind lock 60 of the Schuylkill Canal Near Al’s by the Sea, And arrived at a place where A man gets certain ideas. He keeps an aftershave called Probable Cause In his steamer trunk, Just in case he needs to leave in a hurry. He ran into Eddie and the Cruisers at the DMV On their Final Crossroads Tour And came away with a briefcase Full of splendid riffs for next to nothing. He knows Ophelia’s last soliloquy In thirteen variations. He’s followed Native American vapor trails, Keeping close in line with the rain shadow, Till perched on the edge of the Sand Creek Blues Straining just out of reach of an eagle feather. He reckons keen on the insight acquired by the practice Of entering a room a little ahead of himself So as to make his presence known Before declaring his intentions. He learned to ride a steed among the heathen Where the mistress of the stable Gave him bare-back lessons. He’s a far cry from the orphanage Where breakfast was a cold butt smack And the day’s other meal paled by comparison. He’s been a conspirator to several minor subversions And has dabbled in Balinese fire. He drove a dump truck to the junk bank And made a perfect midnight deposit. Someone saw him with a bull float Same day Hoffa disappeared. His hairline’s been receding since the day he was born. He’s spent a lifetime losing track of all his markers. He mastered shooting craps from hell to breakfast; Keeps his snake eyes in a boxcar With a new pair of shoes. He takes his bitters as a staple, not a tonic. He says the Holy Spirit was the quiet Beatle \ And Lenin was a Marxist who let Yoko be Yoko. Yet he’s not some contemptible lotus eater, Given to spontaneous meditation When coming in sight of a wooded lake, Though he won’t talk long Without paying tribute on the merits of women. He’s always had success with women of a certain age, Whatever that age happened to be. When some lonely Sheila feel a deficit of sugar love, He goes buzzing beeline for her honey pot pie. He always falls for crazy, dishonest dames. He loves the melodrama. On his stage, Scheherazade smells of teakwood and hibiscus, While he be creeping cat-like through the mist, Bearing Oberon a potion for Titania. He finds the secret passage every time And takes it to a place so deep, He has to get there by himself. He’ll wander beyond the periphery Of useable floor space To light upon her yin And lavish her with yang. He’ll leave his mark upon the gatepost Where the hinge is getting cranky, And help her liberate the sorceress within, Forever and ever. Amen.

Copyright © | Year Posted 2021

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Date: 9/14/2021 2:49:00 AM
Woah now this is a great poem and so interesting to read.... Excellent storytelling...
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Michael Kalavik
Date: 9/14/2021 3:03:00 AM
Thank you.