I hate post-mortem apologies,
Preferring the onus of fool
While it can still linger
On the palate,
Aurificate from the Pilate's seat.
Hence this curtain-call by
That noted Catskills diva, Mea Culpa,
Accompanied by a fanfare couched
In the selfsame bongoid timbre once,
In night long-relays, used to drub
From our devolved existence a tiresome
Over-established, underwritten, and
Ideologically bevested seedling
With visions of Jackian growth.
There was no interest in trade beans
Or other mercenary biofacts,
Particularly since the cow had already
Been slaughtered, sauced, ribbed, and skirted.
We planted them instead, in the woodwork,
Fertilized with otters and the mace of divine right,
Where they quietly ate their way into the somber
Rites of beatification, lending the corkscrew directrix
To sanctitropicity and eventually producing the
Gaudiest invisible man ever to reemerge from the
Bleak cubbyhole I inherited and fled,
Spending my hours in Morley's chair to escape
The vengeful defending moral linebackers.
Not until my kid came home one day, big-eyed
And dripping with untold surprises, saved for the
Juiciest skip-a-beat moment of dinner and then unleashed:
"You know that story you tell about the Baltimore
How he told you the truth about nutmeg? How all
You guys got stoned and sick on mace
The night before the big (unreported) conference
And woke up to a dining room full of Native ancestors
Full regalia? Well, my friends have this book...... AND
THAT STORY'S RIGHT THERE IN THE INTRODUCTION."
So it was indeed, a reminder that the supposed enemy spy
Sometimes is merely the true outsider following a call
Heard through other mufflings, a first responder
Whose answer we can't yet recognize.
The drums are tachyonically unwound, Andrew,
Their beat no longer even a summons, just a reggae
Grace note behind the memory of fire, a lilt
For the inward stroll we all must take alone.
They will be muffled someday, at heart's end, but
The unsought resonances will have danced the web
Through decades of shimmering and made of us all
Things we never looked to be.
If other rooms had housed us, perhaps we might have
Become in part what the other found in those etched-plywood
Mysteries and sagas: generations will inhabit our reliquary,
To be safely bequeathed the questing.
Best ourselves now: my part is to pass the drums
To you, that they may speak in full the dreams
We never saw for fearing the precipice.
Sleep sweetly. It is done.
- David W. Mitchell
David / to