Bacchanalia By Manny Grimaldi

after reading William S. Burroughs

When you arrive, my soul hears your heart ringing- 

tangled the canopy amidst spiders and butterflies to rest 

our minds, bells to carry mourning doves peaceful 

fish and amphibians swimming 

in ponds under the ever-ancient moon adrift of freshet Earth, 

who is said was pummeled by comet trails. 

Now everything, everywhere is satellite rubble,

and my spirit explodes, the light the dark, the dark the light

with old Ron, earnest and praying for his woman infirm,

with Ron who crumples—a laundry heap to wake 

with a start again—in his ram shack, lit by oil lamp, lifting 

off a circus floor. Horses hover. Clowns by letters learn them use 

defibrillators—but it’s late. It’s over. Everyone’s arthritic.

So forgo CPR and let Ron die in peace.

The doctor arrives drunk, complains 

that someone cut his Propofol with non-fat dairy vanilla 

creamer at the clinic.“What do I know?” he grumbles. 

He’d rather be dead, and it pisses him off. 

We stare in shock, he rants, “Can someone explain 

the world we live in, when Cadillac highs are sought 

at rock bottom prices?” and he cuts adrift of freshet Earth,

explodes in clouds and tumults of light in dark in dark in light.

Manny Grimaldi is an editor and writer and musician from Kentucky.  He manages Yearling, a Poetry Journal for Working Writers.  Publications credits include Moss Puppy and Disturb the Universe Magazines, Pegasus, and Jerry Jazz Musician.  He has a forthcoming poetry collection with Whiskey City Press in the near future.