In this sense they are in league with each
other, and we see this in several ways.
When I tell my tale, I am at the Fillmore East
on Sept. 23 1970, punching a cigarette
through my hand. There is no feeling
like the radio inside dialing into the signal
of a revival in full-blown tongue. Stray beads
flung from the busted lung growling
my revelation, and I believed I saw paper lanterns
illume the couch-loafing alchemist
in pinpoint gaze, not feeling the greasy arms draped
around him, too long in trance, already wasted
he knows he’ll walk away in darkness, maybe not
be seen for years, yet to be played out in
prescient rage against the cats and syndicators. Relics
of what I lost in the ensuing days of meat and mortgage.
Until, unsuspecting, Goldbarth’s dizzy-fisted poem,
500-years too young, knocked me back in calendar black-and-white
ripped off and tossed as if to show passing time in old movies
to that moment of God’s plenty where I punched
a cigarette through my hand and the sweaty
stigmata of revelation blew through my inside radio
(Daily Spam 11.10.11)
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