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Tuesday, March 1, 2011


I wrote that last (Epitaph) around 1986.
First poem that I liked.
I've since lost all my material from that this is from memory.
Back thrn, everyone thought it was a suicide note(!)...but it was ,on the one hand, merely prophetic....and on the other, attempting to convey a deep need for a change of scenery...of circumstances...which wouldn't be fulfilled till much later.
When I woke up in Hermann, after that wreck, one of the first things that came to mind was the last part...about afterlife...and my Grandma, who happened to be sitting there(RIP), was worried....
Gagoo (what I called her...ergo, what everyone called her)...she was Conservative...but very Pragmatic, in a very Stoic sort of way. Being married to Pop (my Grandad) did well as growing up in the Depression.
I have always, almost habitually, maintained an Alias...a Nom de Guerr....
at that time, I was still Joe D'moe.
Before, and much younger, I was Turin Architamon (!?).
The former served me well...kept the Cops confused...
I have been Amfortas, the Hippie,for ten years...
I derived this from a character in Parzifal whom I identified with.
Amfortas was the Grail King, the Fisher King...Wounded in the Thigh, a euphamism for Castration, loss of Potency.As a result of this Wound, the Kingdom, Monsalvaat, fell to Ruin...the Wasteland.Kept alive by the Grail, in wich the Spear of Destiny would be dipped, and applied to the Wound, he was nevertheless in Great Pain...
What would Heal Amfortas' Wound was the arrival of the Holy Fool, Parsifal...who would, innocently , ask the Holy Qustion..."Uncle, What ails thee?"...and the second qusestion,asked of the Grail,itself; "How do I serve thee?"
This would heal the King, and thereby, heal the Land...the Wasteland would bloom.

In real life, my Wife is playing the part of my great Relief, and Happiness.
I am going Dark.
It is pointless to argue, any more....
The country is split...the Factions cannot Compromise, as they live in Parallel Universes...
I grow weary of either preaching to the choir, or arguing with stumps...there is no dialog with the latter....
...and there is no "Middle" for the Apathetic Apolitical Mundanes....and these are even more tiresome.
My efforts will be Local...and mostly without fanfare.
Garden, Poultry,etc....perhaps I'll write a book,that no one will read or understand.
Major construction is finished around here...minor nibbling, like more insulation, and paint.
I shall go, at last, into the Monastery...and close the door....
And await the Fall of Empire.
There is nothing more to do, out here.


Epitaph, from Memory(original in... like, 1986)

...Think I may be fading out of Existance, soon.
Soaked up by tree Roots and field Mice...
Paint me like the sky, Momma...
...cause I'm ready to jump.
To soar.
And then maybe I'll fall, like rain.
And live quietly forever in deep woods and green fields,
and hollow logs,
and speak only with birds and turtles.
Or, maybe, disappear
Naked and Glorious,
with my Tangled Mop,
into a blue grotto on the west coast,
and haunt people on the Beach...
Then again, I might Exit, tomorrow...
A flaming ball of steel and hair and denim,
screaming into my afterlife of woods
and dirt.


Winter is tiresome...even Painful.
This Winter was no less....and even more,
being unusually cold .
A constant battle, with pipes and wood,
and fires and high-dollar propane, ice,
.. and temperatures below 20 for days; windchill,-10.
...and all this in too much clothing.
And Pain.
Suddenly, it's Warm...70-80...
Like waking from Hibernation...
but without feeling rested.
(Geese are mating...avian Saturnalia in the kiddy-pool...
(there is always a cheering section, with Geese))
My list is long.
Manure is required...
the Anticipation of Green, after Winter's Browns.
I forsee Problems with the Food Supply.....
Ergo, the Garden must be Large.
...and I must find time for the Forge.
Collected the scattered pieces of me....I Remember, again.
And I am almost breathless, with Potential...
Slowly Thawing.