In the time of bells were all things sacred
and the world an endless haunted maze
of smokestacks and lightning.
Wherefore did the divine disorder relent?
Wherefore did volatility cleanse itself in
the superfluous starch of the perfect cube.
The gunslinger craves a romantic pit
in which to ravage his body and mutilate
his brethren by the profiting fire.
Did not Willie Mayes heroize the blacks?
Just as the grapes of the promised land
satiated the innate need for tenderness?
Oh odious swine, detest me not
for I am merely the miner's torch.
His soul erupts from the pavement
to the jungle upon my brow.
Upon yourself! Your own demise
has been settled. Voted by the parliament
of fools. And stamped by the madman
whose reckless fist crushed the Buddah.
Millions gather to waste their youth in
the Romanesque celebration of the façade.
Hail! Our champion emerges from mud.
Hark, come forth, and melt away the
hate with your quixotic dream.
Jubilation! The visionary bear does
not resent. Rather, he seeks our sympathy.
We are family. Red dressed in black,
alike.
But all’s gone and dead.
Like the warm sun, all passed.
Cold beginning, leave me be.
You could not beg of change, for
we are too content to observe…
Or rather… to believe we observe.
Can the Robin not sing?
Cannot they ask and need and hear?
Does not the same fiery passion
burn in the furnace of their bellies?
CHAOS!
Nothing to be done…
Gogo, Dee-Dee…
I know you all too well.
-Graham Cohen
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