Atlantean Pipedream

Running this way and that, in search of some adventure new The roads ran their course with flatirons the ruts not few Over hill, mountain, river, valley, flood, glen and dale To the open sea with long, sandy beaches and cut-up shale To found a village here or there or town or port to call Imports to the harbor, markets to open, and stores to maul With Able’s fruit—either high or low— yielding no good life The towns looked above to stave away constant strife With no blossom, the towns built upward to store some treasure The good ol’ boys breaking stocks to gain some measure Breaking stocks not bread, with yield upon yield Or bricks into actions, building high away from the fields And the New Babylon, like F. Scott predicted in prose Where nothing feels decent or good and nothing ever grows Has grown higher, perhaps, than even ancient Sumer could And his books out of print, out of font, are not printed in wood All that remains of his stories, east egg and west Are programmers building forms from programs, no longer missed The lonely feeling of afternoon apperitifs or stiff strong drink Even the sparklin’ ladies in their feather, plush and mink Soar beyond the lay of the skyline if not the lay of the bed With nothing but wonder, inclination, nothing but dread How much emptiness this massive wealth can buy Without really any curious gal or curious guy The world’s tallest buildings reaching into ‘thereal night And lights flashing on hovering spacecraft above, whose flight Orbits the continents, oceans, floodplains, and polar caps When pressing on towards Venus or Neptune will open their flaps Look outward beyond towards other planets near and far Within the Solar Domain and towards them that wander The astronauts in future, and from before, won’t know why they came to this planet Earth, since they will have left with nothing, even blame Blame to exist, exist to blame, never settling here or anywhere Where the grass is the stars beyond bluer than blue, or crystal stairs With melted hearts, like sugar lumps, full of air, full of plump Bumpin’ up slow, passin’ Dante on the left–or Janice Bishop’s rump