Standing behind a cape of
invisibility
woven
from the orb weaver’s dew,
I
study the wise and aging wizard,
his
beard a cascade of white years,
unwinding
gold from the lead on his bench.
His
world is upside down or right-side up,
spinning
like a drunken gyroscope
or
a falcon creating wanton wind
with the purpose of fire and gyre.
Rain
falls up to be transformed
into
Solomon’s wildflower regalia
that
will enter jaded Jerusalem
on
the back of a borrowed ass.
This
progenitor did not turn rocks into bread
or
jump from a cliff onto angels’ wings,
did
not transmute the kingdoms of the world
into
a gospel made of shiny things.
His
retrograde mojo was better at rolling stones
or
making rattle and rebel clatter
from
Ezekiel’s dry and lifeless bones.
As
for me, I wish only to drink spiced wine
that
bestows the power of impish Puck,
seduce
the sultry brunette behind the castle wall
and
gain a kiss on the far side of midnight.
Oh,
what pleasant Saturnalia.
Let
the periodic table mix and match
as
you play me backwards, backwards play me.
Such
creative alchemies will never give me pause,
for
inversions still lie at the bottom of the rabbit hole.
Effect
has become the everlasting cause.
~William Hammett
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