Out of Left Field

David Meury dmeury at yahoo.com
Tue Mar 28 07:53:20 CST 2006


"Somewhere down the road from this federal facility, 
carried by the midnight wind from a bikers' bar called
Knucklehead Jack's, came live, loud rock and roll,
ever-breaking waves of notes in squealing screaming
guitar solos that defied any number of rules, that
also lifted the blood and reassured the soul..."

Reminds me of Wallace Stevens'
A High Toned Old Christian Woman

Poetry is the supreme fiction, madame.
Take the moral law and make a nave of it
And from the nave build haunted heaven. Thus,
The conscience is converted into palms,
Like windy citherns hankering for hymns.
We agree in principle. That's clear. But take
The opposing law and make a peristyle,
And from the peristyle project a masque
Beyond the planets. Thus, our bawdiness.
Unpurged by epitaph, indulged at last,
Is equally converted into palms,
Squiggling like saxophones. And palm for palm,
Madame, we are where we began. Allow,
Therefore, that in the planetary scene
Your disaffected flagellants, well-stuffed,
Smacking their muzzy bellies in parade,
Proud of such novelties of the sublime,
Such tink and tank and tunk-a-tunk-tunk,
May, merely may, madame, whip from themselves
A jovial hullabaloo among the spheres.
This will make widows wince. But fictive things
Wink as they will. Wink most when widows wince.

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