LATE NIGHT TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 3RD, 2020
I.
Yeats has a question,
and I just love Barbara Stanwyck, don’t you?
So the first thing I’m getting is this:
White is the color of loose saints’
robes
and of atheism,
and blue-white the color of snow
in shadow.
So things are getting warmer.
II.
BS’s derriere bulges beneath a scarlet skirt,
and there is also a four inch wide
ribbon
around her very tiny waist, which is also white
and wrong
–so yes
this may be a hint
to riddles of evolution, Rev. 17:3
and the election’s outcome.
For it is a dragon that BS rides.
No Statue of Liberty cometh as she.
And in answer to your question, Mr. Yeats,
Donald Trump.
III.
It all started with a soft mat of cells.
They grew more numerous at a muddy bottom.
They bubbled upward to the white sun,
bleeding rank gasses, and here we are breathing them.
Again.
By such arrive the secrets. Of dearth. Of light.
So 1933.
IV.
In surety–as in #4surely–the Joker wears the
thorned corona,
and those mailed-
in ballots are to be watched.
The white saints are preying upon them
with great conviction.
Their importance seems to be rising
up up up
as in a dust devil of def; as in a file beginning with D
–so yes, Mr. Yeats, I am a-frayed. Everywhere his cult responds
to a trumpet
which I do not understand
and they alone can hear.
V.
Barbara,
I think he has risen! Can you see that he has risen?
I believe he has risen, too, but I don’t know
whether he has risen enough!
I know you want this, Barb. Ever since Roosevelt, you’ve
been waiting
for this hour. Who’s stuck
with the card of the drowned Phoenician, tell me!
You know, no?
No.
Well, Yeats is at the Ouija Board.
And?
He’s double-checking now.
He says?
Right again.
Which means?
Down again.
_____
Prometheus Unbound 