Going Underground (for William Blake)

Let us all retreat now into the secrecy of poetry,
into the pedestrian road rage of incomprehensible symbols,
into pages white burned pages black, into rambling mangled encryption,
away from a world rendered remorseless of mad made up words,
just as the morning blues-hued crows squawk to each other
for no reason other than to announce, "the fool is here,
the fool is there, the fool in the clouds is everywhere."

And if the dog has howled, 
then is promptly disemboweled,
then let us read the entrails as real history.
It comes from below, like thunder so we know
the lingering echo of the empty minded sound
is the most profound mystery
of the poet gone underground

Does he know from where it came,
as a bargain with his shame,
from me, and most certainly not her,
maybe him or not him,
from the stomach or the groin,
from the heart but not the brain,
from the sunshine on the hot moon,
from the mirror of private imagining?

Get out of the way! 
Get out of the way!
Get out of your own way!

Down, down, down we go, down we go, down we go
into the immense pinprick of angels set to wandering,
beneath the surveillance of prying sick society
to save ourselves with muffled ringing bells
made of murky meanings, dual and dark,
from the molten core, a sacred fire,
a revolution that starts at home