I’m a standing wave in the river of KronosI’m the singer, the sing-songwriter, and all that I sangI’m in the vestibule of the World to Come, with Eros and LogosMade of stardust – dust to dust – from the great Big Bang
But here, in my neuron corridor, I’m the resident ghostWith slings and arrows and wellsprings that never ceaseSplashed like blood on each synapse doorpostIs the paint of the masterpiece.
I took a pilgrimage to the Shrine of the HumanIn the Temple of Beauty, atop the stardust Mountain of TruthBy the Bonfire of my Vanities my path was illuminedChanting lyrics of popular songs of my youth
At the Temple climbed to Love’s bedchamber of MysteriesRoom of two lost souls, desire and sweet releaseOn those frescoed walls of Mirrors and of Memories,Is the paint of the masterpiece.
Well beside that bed, in a mahogany bedstand,In a simple cardboard box, without a frameWas a wristband of leather, and a hand-drawn headband, Piece of paper, where she printed Her address, and Her first name
There was an inkpad, a lens and a Jew’s harpIn that temple-mount bedside cardboard-box holy-of-holiesFrom memory’s inkpad, in fingerprint, on back of Her bookmarkIs the paint of the masterpiece.