: a drunk collage: another "epic"*

Starting at the beginning,
letting the tilt of the backyard
lull me up then back down
in circles, to tell in turn
these stories. And so,
back as far as I know:

Story of My People
Tribes gathered and grew.
They counted the grains.
Depended on the seasons,
rejoiced, nay, transfigured.
Cults of the sun, of the earth
realized gods onto our plane,
they walked between
the beanrows.

Their features formed
and darkened, envisaged
in Our dark mirror mind.
And then faces had names
and they counted the grains.
Numerals and ocher lips
left pretty petroglyphs
but left the stone sculpted
in marble columns endraped–
Roman red over owl-blue–
but still the Bullhorns poke through!
That's me, the narrator among narrative.
Where my maternal starts
so far as I know, in the cult of Mythras,
a Taurus charging the boot of Europa.

Excuse me; I'm not a historian.

My father's people were barbarians,
I would think so.
They dispelled the civilized clout
and darkened the day and age.
Hail Mother Mary Hellen,
her whole family got burned.
A lesion across that continent,
filled with the church,
which took both my parents.
Then the American Dream.

My History
These gods and Names who guided and transfigured,
that framed my peoples, gave it to them,
I have forgotten.
Soon after seeing it all, I felt it all mundane.
Dismissed him as chaos,
left him so abundant
as to be given
not granted.
Now I sit and forget...
the enveloping leaves in the back,
the passerby from the front deck,
I remember yet!
But lost in adult perplexion
I fear that I've given up some ghost
who haunted my great journey
and leaves me on blank slates,
cyclical, again again, timelessly:
Myhistory:*

–First it was Death who so captivated me.
Like any friend, too, I shivered and cried secretly.
Literally. No thing really, nothing really.
–Then Love came swift, sharp,
unrecquitting, then unremitting, then spent.
–Then Earth spoke wonders and tremors
seemed God incarnate, Life this is,
gotrees growmy skull I don't know,
guess it don't come down to much more.
–Now music and the capture of the present:
Where am I? and what is this place?
let me sing you the questions!

But where is God in my voice?
I want rockn'roll and adventure
that can't be grace;
it's idolatry.
Maybe God really is dead,
you lose him like the holiday superheroes
or ancient mythoids,
age age into forget.

-Lyrix
-Rockn' Jazz

Cruise my way
to the West Coast
Maybe make the beach
by June or July

Oh it really doesn't matter
No it really doesn't matter

Those blond
blue eyed surfer girls
Me I'll be stranded,
standing and a staring

and Me I'll be breezing
Me Pacific 'n Breezing

Maybe I'll go
And maybe I will stay
If you're looking for me
Look out there in LA

LA I finally made it
LA I'm on my way
through your mountains
Oh it's down onto the beach
out into the streets You know to Downtown LA

Oh you know it's LA
with the wind at your back
and a song that I heard
on the way

Me I'll be breezing
Me Pacific 'n Breezing

Got me a place
on Pacific
Take me a room
on Breeze Avenue

You know it really matters
Everything matters

Dreaming in the
City of the Angels
Living my life the
Angel Town way
A breeze in my face
There never was
a place like LA

and I'll breeze Her
Me Pacific 'n Breezing

Cruise my way
to the West Coast
Maybe make the beach
by June or July

You know it really matters
Everything really matters

and I will breeze Her
Me Pacific 'n Breezing

Maybe I'll go
And maybe I will stay
Oh if your looking for me
Look out there
in LA.

-R.

(79)
-LA