I am an arctic gypsy
come hither to enjoy the warm, crackling fires of Hell.
I have ferried
across the Mississippi with a hooded man;
he had a record deal
and told me he once had played the drums,
mentioning that the sticks had given him his lively hood.
more to appear polite than out of genuine interest in his dilemma,
and asked him
if his place had air conditioning.
I got a piece of yellowtail
from a girl hanging out at the barbeque grill;
she said it was the in thing,
and would I please stay outside
while she pulled herself apart.
I read briefly
from the book of the dead
(which she had in translation)
and waited for the morning
for her to come to life.
She said it could be a really cool town
if you liked to see red.
I met a man who had composed
a benediction using a stanza or two
he sang it in a delightful monotone
while reciting his intention
to duplicate the splendor
of Gregorian chanting.
Although it was hard to decipher,
and now I am rather confused;
I met a man named Lucy –
Lucy Paul Smith,
and his neighbor, Lucy Anna Reed;
as a matter of fact,
everyone here seems to have the name
Not wishing to pry,
I asked a red-faced gentleman,
“What’s Lucy for?”
while he had a fall
and then recited something about needing a light
and meeting a lot of smokers.
I signed a petition
and walked down a forked path
where a door said,
“Tonight Only –
Glad It’s Night and the Pit,
with special guests
the Beezle Bubs.”
All hail the contract players.
* subliminally, onrefnI s’etnaD taeper = repeat Dante’s Inferno