All the acid trips in the world
couldn't compare to the monkish throat music
rising from his diaphragm like
vibrations dancing high wire Charlestons
between tin can phones.
He said, “I can take all the sorrow in the world
and make a snowball out of it with
grade A, one hundred per-cent cognition;
something all your multiprocessors
and your supercomputer mother tongue can't compete with.”
And people congregated around him
like black-smudge sparrows huddled on telephone wires
and knelt at his feet as if he was some
neo-Jesus,
some latter day Messiah.
But pretzeling yourself into lotus positions
like titans doing calisthenics
is easier said then done. He preached that the secret
was knowing when to listen.
The ambiguity of this wisdom bled from the ears of the people
and coagulated in the form of
iPod earbuds and they reverted to vaguely contemplating
the Berlin walls running through their
cerebral hemispheres;
mortar bricks constructed of a trillion
lols and rotfls and lmaos.
