O the bright light bulbs of Alton Bay outside the
roller-skating rink I'm selling three Led Zeppelin albums for a nickel—
we're not exactly expanding consciousness but on the road to
Weirs a flash of insight burns an enduring hole through this mask of memory.
Away from the penny arcades, at night, from the beach, the
lake looks more obscure than Eastern Algonquian history, yet
still and clear like the onyx ring I am worshipping on
Mary's finger on the hand I'm holding because I want to hold your hand, Hare
Krishna—
I want to know that great unknown my mother hides away from, and my father only vaguely knows is something he can't tell me.
And so this trip is long and strange and doesn't ever end
because I never can remember when it really started—
so unknown, unsaid and ultimately unborn, by the bonfire
burning holes thru the veil of mind, this stream-of-consciousness is kissing
Mary.
No comments:
Post a Comment