The opening is attended by typical show trash
who play second banana, make sick figure salaries
and create mental ferment over the hype to go see
that 81 question virtual faith pop whack-o-thon
worst Y2K or Y2Jerks disaster nightmare,
Broadway production of a deeply weird
multimedia musical, stupidly named, Tryst.
As the myth goes and the scene opens on a nifty riff,
someone is always castrating the golden boy
and throwing his genitals into the womb of the sea.
They celebrate with one more clam bake and wait
for the fire of heaven to fertilize the old mud hole.
Yes, the will to live or the need to lead metaphor
is still a divine tease with tons of fun left in it.
Caught up in this libretto are celestial beings,
Ernest, the also-ran, Burmese mountain dog,
chat room dialogues with goddess Athena,
a two mega-bulb cyber light show
with half a megawatt of sound,
phenoms, game geeks, snow golfers,
Prozac diarists, mosh pit politicians,
one king of tell-all, one Hustler-king
with lots of old demons dancing,
and much digital blaspheming
as the outlying rocker ranchers
e-mail insults in from the flannel frontier,
a scene carefully set against the far white heights
of blank-faced futuristic buildings.
Toute suite one morning with room for rancor,
Bill and Monica sit on the furniture of myth
in the office of ultimate humanity, that niche
where the ultimate human will be re-installed,
year 2000 ready, despite some bad juju,
about to enter the Celtic chaos of Mercury shadow
conversant with the scent of flower shop roses,
ones that only give up alchemist's properties,
vitamin C and Niacin, overcoming the senses
one molecule at a time like dinosaur doom.
Monica fades up the conversation, "Whats that in Euros?"
Bill leans back, "Depends on which end of the cosmic marimba
you like to play on, kiddo." They laugh much too loudly.
Icy treetops sparkle with flesh-tones in morning glow
as the Pennsylvania players of a hormone holocaust
begin breaking in their non-stop headlines,
boldly committed to a non-relational ballet of zippers,
weightless in the fast track, turning in flight as if deciding
whether to fight the future or swallow it whole.
Not your average cubicle dwellers engaged in
guilt-free meaningless sex, they still go crazy
on such holidays when the godhead speaks, when
the government shuts down and the ancient voices
take over, urging the tipping of statues of those
the population no longer hears, as if to ignore
the burning light on the crown of the stone.
Its only a ripple, a selvage remnant of the old calendar
between the Aquarian preamble of bizarre concern and the
drug-free, gun-free, crime-free, deathless century to come.
The shelling continues, the moral agenda strains at gnats,
the defense phase goes into stripped gear and the high-blue
brightness of it all luxuriates in right-brain voices amid the
left-brain schemes of despots who wage their ethnic blitz.
Were use to life in earths rare estranged regions
and like to search for that complete enchantment
that only seems to come with outdoor sexual acts by
those in the pink who survive Gods margin of success.
Change comes to you wily as you wait
for your blue screen virtual cube encounter
dressed in your geez-I-wish-I-were-in-New-York outfit.
You perch there like the little green person on the death ferry,
no intention of clicking on dot com slash impeachment,
all your new needs written out in death-cult scrawl.
Bill has also changed and sees the lavatory urinals
lined up like saxophones in his jazz reed section.
Never mind how universal a symbol might look,
it will always be a mental snowflake.
Its stray focus causes us to miss the storm.
We make round shapes with the holes of our heads,
a human note still clinging to the voice of the loon.
Kindred hisses, purrs and hums escort us
from phone presence to human meaning,
wheeling the grocery cart of speech habits
shop diction and hoot-gig self-absorption
with dark room whispers over cold pizza.
In the topaz puddle of self-concern
the image loads in upside down
where tops of things are foremost
and the cauliflower clouds puff out
the last whole note in the discord.
What comes next after the twisters
worm along the slate-gray horizon
as we sit like groping adolescents
at the latest apocalyptic movie release.
The new El Nino year begins in the pantry
with cigars and breast munching.
Will Aquarius, the querulous fixed air age
suck the wind from everything it needs,
reducing all to a thin, mountain veil of sustenance?
A few have escaped to winter quarters,
where odd things are carried on.
Pagan wisdom and modern science
come together in unexpected ways.
The street of sorrows fills up with Roman re-enactment,
joggers in sweat bands, bystanders with boom boxes,
Mary has her microphone.
Sing Hallelujah, Cmon get happy, were ready for the judgment day!
Its no better than the warm and loving light
of an oxygen starved temporal lobe
or that three minute, near death movie,
Kill Me When I Get There, afterlife episode
where the new moral panic with all the subtlety
of a third world street hustle reveals that
you AND your pocket electronic fantasy guide
just died in an epic bar fight over a massage poet
during a magnetic wave therapy session
and your vinyl fetish, cat-suit boomer bitch
enters your silhouette figured tunnel of white light,
insane-eyed, wild-haired, looking for your
Y2-U-know-what compliant Internet hand gadget
and wants to know if its safe to use your odor-mail?
So who questions the nature of chat
and the disembodied relationships
formed in the vacuum of cyberspace?
Death by depression, wasting away,
feather light, we travel out in the night
if only to sleep.
All the nighttime planets seem to be holding hands,
straddling the signs at the cusps. It's an unusual time.
A young man flunked out of college. Went online.
Stopped going to class and disappeared for a week.
Campus police found him in the empty computer lab.
Is it the wish of the world to be wandering dazed
in some all-night store window motel blinking TV hell
on bogus promos, bad movies and amateur prayer
addressing those midnight-of-the-soul issues and
serving up just what the average insomniac needs.
Video disturbs us like Van Goghs barroom lamps.
Who is that dark persona hunched in the vid-screen?
Whats that noise downstairs, outside, circling?
The wind? A conscience? Or vengeful self-abuse.
The rat on the rope continues his journey down
lightly borne across the wharf and into the night.
Like stardust in the grit of the road the universal mirror
caters to a constant, burning belief in the great all,
whether you fancy yourself the player, the music or
one divine instrument announcing the green aurora.
YOU will always be waiting for the mail-ship, waiting
on the edge of the emptiness where lions and loneliness
make restless rounds and you the Nth being to be
moved by the logical outcome of love and suffering,
will jump to free associations, click heels, know power.
The jet fuels up, air sizzles, heartaches sharpen,
a beautiful confusion sets in before darkness and infinity.
Racing hearts take hold, join ritual pains
to keep life a secret from itself, that boldly feigns divinity.
ŠJimmy Warner Design, 2016