The
Flying Bellinis, hand to wrist
above
the big tent sawdust,
know
the continuum of daredevil “ahhh!”
from
night to night, from father to son.
The
daisy chain’s endless green and white
tied
together with matrimonial bands
stop
and start, dip and chart
the
Billboard hippie fest—can you dig the light,
man
and wife spawning the generational heart?
Watch
Whitman stitch the leaves of grass,
Crossing
Brooklyn Ferry before the lilacs bloom
in
the dooryard when Lincoln heaves the torch.
Most
of all, Joyce riverrun past Eve and Adam's,
and
the first shall be last and the last
shall
be first—oh I’m talking syntax and pages
that
loop like gyres, and to every season,
there
is pern, pern, pern, Seeger and Yeats
says
Qoheleth: live, die, plant, reap,
laugh,
weep, and dance under Scottish Skye
to
the music of the spheres still spinning
despite
Galileo’s culling of cepheid stars.
Uther Pendragon begets, and the once and future
marries Guinevere again and again and again,
while Lancelot, the queen’s joyous guard,
finds
a way to split the round, pierce her mound
every
time. Place your bets on the neon ground.
Which
brings us to Merlin, the master hook and wheel
who
pivots and joins the constellations nine
with
magic born of Barnum and Igraine.
To
every sex and seed there is a reason,
a
time and purpose under heaven for lay, laid, and lain.
It’s
coffeehouse beat, a Ferlinghetti and Ginsberg howl.
I
am, you are, he she it is the Walrus
disguised
by the mystery tour’s Franciscan cowl.
Be
off now. Get with child a mandrake root.
All
the stones are one. All the stones are one.
Let
us start when everything’s begun.
~William Hammett
Site Map
