poem 777

I am drawing up music for
Watching the end of time.
You know, when women begin
To radiate up into the clouds
And spigots and turnstiles
Disappear with a pop and
drawn fsssttt not unlike okra
Dropped in hot bacon drippings.
I am painting my face to
Meet our makers for a game
Of Cowboys and Indians,
And I'd like to think that
The right team wins above the sky.

Toothbrushes are wilting,
Spoons flare up in a white light,
Slapping out a joyous tintinnabulation
On the backsides of stern kettles
And collanders and the rims of champagne flutes.
Keyrings float by dancing,
Their jagged smiles hiding nothing,
Not even metaphors.

The wineboxes have yet to be stuffed
With peppery Rhones, the picnic basket
Has sprung a leak, and my old lady
Left me for some new paper religion.
Yet already I hear those trumpets
splitting the night!
There's nothing left to do but
Stick a mockingbird feather in my temple
And dance this last Rain Waltz
Thirsty and alone.