75 Mirrors

To the Chief Laureate upon Muthlabben,

A Shiggaion of John, Michtam

In siroccos of summers I wilted,

With no Sir, as sireless,

My dukes down, hangdog towhead,

The runt, a mote in the eye,

A blush in cul-de-sacs,

Bootless for the spurs of Being.

God played Hide-and-Seek,

I-Spy, I always It.

The Jock of brawn bullied.

Who was my Hero, Atlas,

Gentle as the Atlantic,

Loyal as the Boy Scout Oath.

I shinnied into my treehouse.

I talked into the leaves

In green hurricanes of shade.

My sweatshirt was burled with burdock;

I picked it off under the eaves.

Who was my teacher, Merlin.

Who could call up the Pacific;

Who parsed the sentence of me;

No one was who but Who.

My pulse dallied trebled upon me;

The clay of me touched my pulse.

I stood One of the mirror,

On stilts of the face of So;

The light was seventy watts.

God was a distant grandee

On himalayan sabbatical.

Cloud faces bearded the sky.

God was a Catechism.

The roughnecks thumbed Lucifers;

I sniffed on the other side.

The world was a drafty place,

Aeolus prowling the halls.

Deepsea divers shod me;

Deaf Maestros taught me scales;

God is an infinite jest,

I stuttered, their memorized Creed.

Caesar rules the world;

Ozymandias rules;

Scalers of Everest rise,

Byrons of Hellesponts,

All Superman of the kid;

I ate the breakfast of Champions.

God did not believe in God.

I sang the Hit Parade hymnal.

I whistled a Broadway hit;

I hummed it in Levittown.

My youth spilled into the wars.

Smog seeped over the land.

Cities blurred into slums.

Seismographs tallied the Bomb,

Equating the quakes in squiggles.

I walked in a land of Sportscasters;

The muggers knew all the scores.

Disney created the world.

The Statue of Liberty stood:

Petition your senator.

The sun was tanning a cancer.

Peace, I deciphered on walls.

Rx's washed out my eyes.

Parakeets pecked at their mirrors.

Hartz Mountain is food for the birds.

My bowels expected a coming;

I put away things of the child.

In raped abbeys, I snapped pictures:

Good shot of a denosed Saint,

A knocked-off corpse of Jesus,

Bare choirs where owlers hoot,

Rose windows punched into moons.

I sang for the Little Mags.

Slurring the word of a myth,

Ventriloquists parlayed a voice.

The dentist looked into my mouth.

The critics were holding his breath.