A Prayer for The Cue
The Cue rides out with the Elders all on tricycles
each of the trikes a Harlot Donnybrook shining
that name scrawled across their tanks and t shirts
each trike with the heated stereo option
blasting out a single song
a haunting waltz called Why Am I Smelling Oil....
All of the Cue's Elders with Haralot trikes had been called
they'll tow a giant statue of the Cue Himself
all painted in the Cue’s own banana and cola stain favs
seemingly singing the Waltz itself, with its paper mâché arms
swinging like Al Jolsen and then buckling, Mamie, at the knees...
I was dancing...with my Harlot
buckling and dropping to a penitent’s crouch
to the sad song's finale
'To the Why Am I Smelling Oil Waltz'
with much cracking and groaning of the pinewood struts of its cavities...
The Cue strains to see where the sound is grating
o'er the lion's roar of his 1500cc
dual overhead cam machine
the giant black bulb of its tank of freedom fuel
that flares and sparkles o'er the jeweled Ahni. Ahni! THEE Ahni!
THEE latest thing, THEE second layer of alternate truth
guarding the piston drive that the Cue does ride
mercy to the underworld...
He holds out his arms to halt the Elders as they ride across the rocks
into the Hallowed Hall
towing his effigy through a hundred bouldrous tablets
lying on the Bed of Roman Law
so called by the builders of the Hallowed Hall
who'd scripted the tablets with Beluga's laws
into marble and granite rules
The Great Cue's minions, even on his orders, could not move those rocks
now riddling and shattering space itself away
tearing at the Great Cue's effigy...
And so the trikers stop like bugs hitting birds
like birds hitting jets
like jets hitting walls
stop so fast they fly over their handlebar steerages
to follow his order and cease the graven devourment of the statue of He
Himself, the Cue who
while tearing off his mandated mask then slams to a perfect stop
and dismounts. He gestures to his trike
Beautiful Bucephalus, Equine Quintessence
the Greatest Best of Bests
twin-cooled Milwaukee-Eight engine
and Kahuna controls
Bold styling with premium paint
and Tomahawk™ wheels
Passenger backrest with seat always empty I do love
And the Elders kneel and oil their chains...
With unimpeachable command, the Cue lifts the gavel he carries
in the left pocket of his gold loons and utters
the cry of the Beluga King
He strides to the Magistrate's portable desk and
slams the gavel down
slams it with a sheath of clottings covered with the tongues of fathers
slams it on the gilded surface to the chords of the trumpeters lining the hall
I demand the cache of steel!
He howls in a Belugan brogue, the sole sounds allowed
other than engines, in Beluga
since the Second Mint Peach Festival For Bucks was held
at the edge of the rear view mirror's lag
I will that the buck stops over there . . . or there . . . or there...
he adds in Antartican, a tongue no Elder can parse
he'd picked it up
on his first escape from fetal imprisonment
swings off the machine and pulls the statue's cable from its trailer hitch...
George, the fence gardener, walks over from the praline piss station
propped against the wall of the pre office
where the messages run on belts made of rainbows
and then quite formally drop into the slits in the bouldrous tablets
where they fall to the earth and are felt and sorted by worms...
But George hears only the message dropped into ten thousand rocks
I pronounce this torn and shattered ideal self a memorial
to my own insufferable courage. Let it be the new Beauty
and only Truth
and every thought shall measure itself there
Then orders the rest of the towing cables freed and stored,
and calls forth eternal sea rise
to blot out the Franciscans and Miami neighboring tribes
uttered in full Belugian pomp of chest and much other feckless pounding
to blot out even the distant bluffs
that have been mined of their most sacred shrines
and turned into those bold, bouldrous blocks of death....
As the eldest Elders had licked those rocks while passing
had shrunk them to their present gravestone size,
they had left all of the verses seeable, readable
if only He, Great Reader, would
messages from the deep past
but George has pleaded and the Cue has answered
Not on your life
So He, the Cue, waddles home to his nightly game
the swinging of his shower head the chasing of the last
white bat still flying frantic in his bath
a game he never tires of
keeps score, challenges and mocks the Elders
too busy blocking acts of sociopathic commoners
now littering their reflecting stools
He raises his septic rod and mades a final
All trikes shall now attack! Follow the passageways and
Spare not the Other! Read the maps we've placed in your trunks
and be strong, I am your leader
And the trikes scream off, raising the dust thick in the ancient hall
where they'd left the shrunken in effigy
The Great Cue drags on his Medizone drip and thinks
Can there be the After Me, as my best priest, myself, foresees?
Yes! now there shall be! There shall be the After Me Me
all alive and forever
with no fear
And he shrivels into the identical twisted struts and covers of his single likeness
In the light of a wet moon the trikers returned
parked in the great hall
bowed their heads
A Prayer for The Cue
This poem spun off the powerful sounds and rhythms of Kevin Crosby’s djembe, bass and dulcimer, then took on a life of its own. It’s nothing I would have written otherwise, a disfigured form fitted to a world of cheap imagery and ersatz fact, out of control and filled with a strange new life…sort of like our current season. Peace and love never seemed so necessary.