A NEW MYTHOLOGY
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,
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 © Michael Kalavik | Year Posted 2021
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