A mysterious wooden tune,
sullen distant sounds seeping beneath the
dash, from some lost and mystic Andes tribe;
While driving to the welfare center,
to donate my paraphernalia.
|
|
| |
A happy convert before me stands,
wearing salvation blue sports coat
—apothecary grin.
He excitedly gestures, waving a wispy finger,
behind us a man
climbing high on a radio tower.
|
And when looking at the giant cyclops,
I see:
glancing upward, blighted eye in the afternoon
-- opiate cataracts;
I see:
thousands of hornets
pinching fairies in their mandibles.
| |
|
The Corsican brother thanks me for my help,
young man.
Driving away with shamans chanting cures;
feeling older than ever before.
poem © 2004 by Thomas ean Carney |