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.
I nodded,
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
from Rushdie;
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
Lucy.
Not wishing to pry,
I asked a red-faced gentleman,
“What’s Lucy for?”
and waited
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.
1993
* subliminally, onrefnI s’etnaD taeper = repeat Dante’s Inferno
