nothing is true and so much left undone
After a motorway visitation, a penitent is journeying to Port Botany, seeking wisdom and a burger meal. He’s been helped along by the Polar Spirits, and he met Alcione, an alchemist. Now he’s in an angled reality discussing life with a therapist who has a serpentine hairdo. Part 1 is here.
She pried my shameful secrets
with a chisel, stole all my best delusions,
and while I waited for her stellate plan,
she whispered to her woven serpents.
Naked singularities and featherless stigmata,
how quaint his passages through door frames,
his failed understandings.
Have you been talking to Alcione?
She shook her head,
her tiny vipers followed suit,
and one precocious serpent
joined the conversation.
Stranded, solitary, and falling,
a silent lifeless multitude.
My hair did not reply,
although I thought it might have,
and the therapist went on,
an analytic continuation.
From a childhood world where nothing
was explicable or congruent,
from a life of misdirected wandering,
a tangle in your fish thoughts formed,
with tricks of cosmic rays,
scintillations in the optic nerve,
and reality was subverted.
Of course, I thought, she’d have me
believe she isn’t real, but if she isn’t,
the opposite must be true,
and I inquired about a coffee.
She offered me a magazine page,
a doubly treacherous depiction
of a double-shot espresso,
which I accepted.
Might I eat this page?
I’m afraid it’s for my six o’clock.
Any page will do, and if I might
presume upon your kindness,
somewhere out the back,
a cozy nook, a packing crate,
where I could pass the night…
The vipers raised their heads in raucous laughter.
You must go blithely onward,
dressed in a tomato,
in panic or in resignation,
from this realm to another
in the hierarchy.
And she pushed me out the door.
artwork go blithely onward (part above)