Demon Radio

Embroiled in Pre-dawn delusions Assuming the Cloud covered moon is Destroying its symbolism For my own amusement As the parking lot becomes Mystical, enlightened Full of Ambient apparitions Of the eternal type With the coyotes barking And my Inner self yawning I see an old radio Centered in the prosaic grass I am told I must Change the station I am afraid to touch it Even if the angel Gabriel came To force my hand I would scream like a Ferrell cat And Dance like a madman Like the saint known as the Fool of Christ Drunken, with glass in hand Fooling the townspeople With disguised piety Hidden within his hermitage Back to the Vision of an Old radio Against my own fear I turn it on and Tune it to the first station I can hear an old man With a 1920's type Radio host's accent Like Pathe news All over again In wartime England And in his dialogue Thru a slight crackle I can hear him disclose my Location To what I assume to be A company of demons Yes, this is a predicament Too long and Exhaustive for a Simple poem Tune in for the Next installment...