could you duck down just a bit?
I don’t want to seem cavalier
but I think that I spy
the boy with the Salvador Dali moustache in my rear view mirror

the boy with the Salvador Dali moustache
the baby born butt first the morning after Mahatma Gandhi was shot
he burst upon the scene with a botched appendectomy
holding his hemorrhaging heart in his half opened hand
lashing out with the other   -lashing out at the others
all the while wax dripping,empathy waning
snot nosed kid with an axe to grind
with himself & anyone else
that got in the way of him
sabotaging his own attempts at twisting & waxing
& twisting & waxing
his conspicuous unique derangement
that became his coveted toy
after he had taught himself to twist & wax it upward
toward the stars,toward the heavens
all the others thought that he had obtained it so easily,
they didn’t know all the laborious effort that it took
just to maintain & sustain his ornate obfuscation
but he could do it with style & panache
because he was the boy with the Salvador Dali moustache

there had once been a time when he thought
that everyone had one underneath their snout
but alas theirs was grime &  groan,not a growth
just a shadow beneath the nose
but him with the kerosene pulsating through his veins
&  him with the intensity that he could not express

always leery that he would wander into a trap
he squandered all the most valued treasures that fell into his lap

& so the kingdom of childhood melted away
like a lemon dreamsickle on the most torrid Independence Day

later,the boy with the Salvador Dali moustache celebrating
&  truly reveling in chaos while waxing eloquently about
the Golden Dawn

always twisting &  shaping the myth even more to fit his personal egalitarian ethos
always with one clear eye on the awful beast descending the spiral staircase
never knowing with any deep certainty
if he was dreaming,inventing or remembering all these visions

him sitting with all the other kids in their wheelchairs in the shimmering Blakean sunroom
him contained in all his childhood physicality in a two inch by three inch comic book panel,claustrophobic without even a speech balloon to scream into
him making eye contact with a porcelain baby doll still smiling
a gentle yet horrific smile,even though her head is cracked open,
him witnessing the Sisters of Mercy frolicking with monstrous latex serpents
while a tsunami of vinegar & bile slaps them silly

all those visions that the boy with the Salvador Dali moustache can conjure,
murmurs of mystery & deceit that flood his ears
nocturnal noises & whispers just below the level of consciousness
&  the epiphanies always so well timed
the epiphanies so cleverly peopled with just the perfect
combination & blend of charlatans,jerks & wisemen
from central casting
that the boy with the Salvador Dali moustache cannot tell one from the other

& so with some characteristic (for him anyway) blend of fatalism & homegrown hubris

the boy with the Salvador Dali moustache recalls the sweet delicious flavor of the sacrificial lamb that he shared not that long ago with his Bodhisattva buddy

& so he turns & he looks the dedicated & the devoted cook straight in the eye

waxing Charles Dickens/Oliver Twist like & entreats that cook,arms outstretched

“ PLEASE SIR, I WANT SOME MORE”

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Lord,like a young fellow sprung with Spring in his lungs!
he was born to bellow
loaded with the gift of wind in his ribs

if he had it to do all over
he would have tried to talk sense to that fool that first hurled
that very first boulder,long ago in Mesopotamia

as he sifts through all the cauliflower ears & sliced off noses
of his many adversaries
& a wayward wind blasts against his character armor
he mentally embraces all the cornball characters whom he ever created

Olive Oil caught in a meteor storm in the salad section of the Sav-Mart
with her drawers down
stocking up for what she termed “any eventuality”
if she’s not shook,
why should any creature be stirred

that Doom & Gloom mood
he just drops it
doesn’t want to be encumbered by curses or causality

like the department store window decorator was prone to blurt
“I just keep doin’ this lone arranger shtick.”
& the savage demon screams in a blood curdling yell

as the monastic monk peruses the porno pulchritude & declares,
“It is so very pure in its abstraction.”

a “ho” culture that is not anchored in the whole,good earth
a society so overwrought & fragmented
that Babylon shudders & towering acts of depravity reek
as gluttony conspires to devour what little is left
of dignity

pimp your ride !
pimp your bride !
sell your sister
abandon your brother
barter for your mother
thirty dirty pieces of silver for Chrissakes !

the Madonna spread eagle on the altar of commerce
gang banged by bankers & gangsters of lust
as maimed Holy Innocence limps toward refuge,
while Doctor Strangelove guffaws & stuffs his pockets
& his face until his jowls protrude with the puss
of the gobbled up weak & defenseless & dispossessed of the land

look Ma no morals!
or scruples
or ethics
or empathy
wretched,demonic dog eat wretched,demonic dog
each & every (woe)man for themselves

the shrine of William Blake’s Jerusalem now blasphemed & burned
Satanic Mills erected in its ashes
the harlot draped in scarlet & purple lost in a metropolis
of eternal urban catastrophe
survival of the cruelest
a scheme of human conduct reprehensible & rotten to its devolutionary root

when does the Chariot of Fire finally arrive at last bringing justice
to save the innocent & the deserving from the devastating clutches of the enveloping mire?

some thing precious & holy
about being able to strum like Elizabeth Cotton
& sing like Malvina Reynolds

but somehow you got into the Coast Guard
went to Japan
plunked down your yen
then
blew your wad on a psychedelic whorehouse cot in Tokyo

still,you can’t be blamed
you always said that you suffered
from a sore lack of suitable role models
-shame on Superman for shooting himself in the head
-shame on Shane for riding away & leaving
little Brandon De Wilde crying in his blue denim coveralls
& you too with your blue balls
behind the woodshed wall transfixed
with a gatefold of  nasty,naked Jayne Mansfield

shit kid ! -they got you that time too

ye olde primordial, prepubescent desire
yanking your chain,while pud pullin’ was influencing
& blurring your cockeyed perception
you didn’t really think that Blonde Bombshell
would in reality do the diddy wah diddy on your tiny boyhood
truncated  ding a ling,didya?

such is life;you live, you learn

then when you were eighteen,
you were tough,you were indestructible
until that woman
that war
that poverty, that sickness
brought you to your knees

but in the long run
all that personal devastation made you tougher,
meaner
smarter
so wise
that you know now
that those episodes of dread were
perfectly designed to make you grow some spine
that before, you just pretended to have
behind that opaque facade
that imitation of humanity
that you always could create so effortlessly

and then that tingling realization
that the owner of that lugubrious expanse
just might be you

-even after she made a pass
at my sister
I still followed her everywhere
she was my confessor
she was my pal
now she’s a social worker
confidante to the deprived
dispenser of Hope
scattering Morning Glory seeds
across craters of battlefields
using her brushes to their best advantage