Felix

[revolutionrabbit]

the poem starts somewhere in the middle
of the Egyptian Book of the Dead or Felix the cat
with that Paul Whitehead song playing 20's jazz

where you either are looking at
a chaos Miro dot horizon rising like a zero into
huge monuments of rock that appear as the
infinite expression of all things sacred & nothing
to the poem begins to make,
of meow that sound of sounds so eternal so another
cuts through the western paradigm
the poem becomes a rebel where myth meets
language at the axis bold as love
the mystic stranger waits at the gate
transfixed like a god or a ufo

I can hear the poet singer reciting the poem of poems
that was hidden inside of Blake's Tyger, left for another
age of visionary rogues to discover and decipher

as the poem kills him on the road
to the starry dynamo where that angry fix of fixes
descend into maze-like alleys---I saw the madness
of the unfettered minds of the psychedelic generation

weave in and out of dog star nodes of departure
to points unknown, theaters of cathartic healing
so then the book of the dead really called the
book of the coming forth by day, as does the
poem coming through the transformation
of the forbidden night,rolling the dung, the drug
the bug, out of the unconscious content of contexts--
--crystallizing voids of underworld wonder---

as the cosmic cat stands up on her hind legs
and bats the myriad ball of yarns and threads
with her paws of poems like exotic locutions
like volcanoes of plasma dancing in oceans of bliss
Beethoven's ninth symphony weaving in and out of
Paul Whitehead's Felix the cat song with excited eyes

[Kailashana]

Come again?

What ya been smokin?

~

[revolutionrabbit]

it's all in my novel, Gracie

[Kailashana]

Say good nite, Felix. I'm off to see the wizard. Isn't that novel?

~A