Mythville

Sputnik Moment

Spoken like an angel of light

in the halls of Pandemonium,

purple ties, in harmonium,

Robispierre without peers,

silver tongued saint,

to the tainted, with silvery hair,

shadows taller than wind,

caught in corners,

making loud old sounds,

growing louder,

making the case, without debate,

as the illusive image flickers,

without debate,

mixing the media-phors

about nothing being funny,

about peace love understanding

holding hands across America

to all the sweet voices of nobodies,

silent majorities, loud-mouthed

minorities, frozen out, surrounding

blue-lit burn barrels, yearning

for the golden ghosts of yesteryear,

receiving instead, this Plutonic tonic,

with nothing but their imaginations,

all beer-soaked and dumbed down

to go with the drifts of currents,

mountains, prairies and stars

In the woods the mind

has much mistaken,

the currency of the re-awakened,

all mankind peering inside his apple,

his words written in two mirrors,

written down twice, eyes sympathetic

to the two faces of citified man,

Luddites locked out, being the divided

electronic icicles, turning red or blue,

waiting for the mail gone paperless,

to poets seeking heat from cornstalks

covered in snow, to laughing waters

flooding now, measured in GPS miles,

in cool and sleazy breezy smiles

And this perfect image,

with a different vision

for the Everyman, offers

an acre, a plot, a carnage

of a green and pleasant land,

where the clean air is unclean,

and the last waters, thundering mean,

with books to burn, words in earns,

facts gone to myth ... blown this kiss

with posts on the wall, unreadable

mega-bit tattooes and star bright

Twitter accounts, in aeons, gurus

keeping track of stock options,

riding in limousines, praying in their pines

of a dim-lit Sputnik rendered into far stars,

wishes in dreams gone to daylight footballs

in darkened Sunday afternoon bars

as light and time shines in two suns so bright,

not a dead star but a man made overflight,

searching for reasons, for something to say

they stuck around for ... a last tree,

a bit of grass, all caged behind bars

in this house of infinite mirrors,

the Saint has joined the sinners