even a factual story,
retold often enough,
will take the shape
of myth, distortion.
Memory & imagination
are neighbors in the brain;
they like to go a-visiting.
how it was meets how
one would have liked it
to be--the result makes
you happy. so it was and
is and continues to change:
college student basement
apartment, Ithaca, NY, 1991,
not long after I'd beaten on
the couch w/ a baseball bat
to scare an unwanted visitor
away. he stayed. i was familiar
with the myth of the Beats
but I'd never read them...
|Moloch! Solitude! Filth! Ugliness! Ashcans and unobtainable
dollars! Children screaming under the stairways! Boys sobbing in armies!
Old men weeping in the parks!
Moloch! Moloch! Nightmare of Moloch! Moloch the loveless! Mental Moloch!
Moloch the heavy judger of men!
Moloch the incomprehensible prison! Moloch the crossbone soulless jailhouse
and Congress of sorrows! Moloch whose buildings are judgement! Moloch the
vast stone of war! Moloch the stunned governments!
Moloch whose mind is pure machinery! Moloch whose blood is running money!
Moloch whose fingers are ten armies! Moloch whose breast is a cannibal dynamo!
Moloch whose ear is a smoking tomb!
Moloch whose eyes are a thousand blind windows! Moloch whose skyscrapers
stand in the long streets like endless Jehovas! Moloch whose factories dream
and choke in the fog! Moloch whose smokestacks and antennae crown the cities!
Moloch whose love is endless oil and stone! Moloch whose soul is electricity
and banks! Moloch whose poverty is the specter of genius! Moloch whose fate
is a cloud of sexless hydrogen! Moloch whose name is the Mind!