by Ed Markowski
During the years that spanned the gap stretching from Cathy’s Clown to Me and Mrs. Jones,
I believed peace on Earth was entirely possible and mostly a small matter of blind men growing
into wise men nurtured, groomed, and nourished by the wise council of the alien daughters and
sons they nurtured, groomed, and nourished. I believed the midnight sky, its moon, and every
star stitched on its surface, to be equivalent shades of celestial enlightenment,
I believed soul, the blues, jazz, hillbilly honky tonk, swing, folk, and rock and roll were God’s
sweet gifts of jubilation, celebration, unification, and God’s way of restoring the brilliant red,
white, brown, black, yellow, and blue luster to our flag planted in the flesh dust, and flying
olive drab on the billowing cap of a mushroom cloud. I believed the Angel Gabriel returned,
traded his trumpet for a Homer Marine Band mouth harp, and pointed the way across a
dead white desert of iron and fire,
I believed love minus lunacy was a girl of solid gold good with salvation slick eyes that
beckoned and pulled me up from the shafts of my coal mind, and brushed the coal dust
off my eyes with a first kiss that would never end. I believed hell’s expressway was paved
with Jerusalem gold marble tiles that began long before Galileo, and ended at the base of
a fools gold chalice set upon an altar of bone, set upon the shadow of an emaciated murder
victim twisted on a stick above three priests and a football coach tasting a just baked batch
of peanut butter altar boys, who invited me to the party,
And standing in that lie I didn’t believe in, I knew the paths to the city of gold though
littered with asses, addicts, sex, sorrow, slop, rifles, ribbons, queens, quacks, frauds, freaks, fools,
ghouls, geeks, and us begin in the alleys and end in the alleys that run behind every church
from Bramblewood, Missouri to Beijing.
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