Sometimes a nonce god springs
Into being. For a moment
He's all-powerful but then
His followers lose interest.,
With luck, He finds a paying gig
As god, say, of mixed-blend fabrics
Or illegally-downloaded music.
Without it, He willy-nilly joins
The down at heels gods
Watching for the faded men
With battered trucks at dawn
Near the corner of Bell Boulevard
And 206th Street.
When Li Po asked his shadow to dance with him
It sometimes consented and sometimes excused itself
Politely, pleading the amount of wine recently
Consumed by one or the other of them. Mine, though,
Stares at me, wondering if I've lost my wits entirely.
Just then the music says
"Hey, you fellows working
So hard to play me: relax! You're
Most of you quite dead; this is
A recording or perhaps
Just someone's memory
Of one." The conductor quells it
With one of those stern glances
For which he was so well known.
Suddenly someone from
Quite a different book
Rides through. Now you're
Unable to even listen
To your plot's demands.
The very punctuation
Reproaches you, saying "Idiot!
Why didn't you go with her --
We'd have helped! As it is,
We're putting you in brackets --
Double ones -- where you
Can beat your foolish head in vain."
In a drawing of the Italian School
Hate, Horror and Infamy
Shuffle into a castle just as
Love, Honor and Civility
Are leaving; everyone
Looks a bit tired.
Civility is waving to Infamy --
Perhaps they'll meet later
For some wine and a bit
Of talk about old times.
