By Sing with me eons
we’ve gone dead
the purpose dreamed
inside my head
says Yes!
this strange
theophany’s old stew
is due
to rampant drug use
or some hue
like that
the fat
young analyst proclaims
this book, the DSM
intones
that you are histrionic
dew
of God
no, wait
it says you’re lost
and need this med
to calm those voices
in your head
So like old William Blake
I’m toast
I guess I’ll write a few more
ghosts
called poems, stories, myths, or
dreams
I turned up Jupiter this morn
the laughing man has made me cold
a pale cadaver to this world
I see most peons plopping by
with some dead economist’s reply
they sigh
that all is gross
but they don’t see
that peace is free
sing loud the quiet mystery
with
me
Abbey Pope 