Song of M____f

In the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, the English colonized Ireland and split it into two castes: the English-speaking, land-owning gentry and the broke, down and out, Irish-speaking pidgin pone peasantry. As a result, I stand before you, a family man, attempting to assimilate parking meters into my olfactory. It doesn't come out right, so scansion occurs out back of The Majestic, where tooth fairy, where apple, fried chicken, she grinned- and, look, here comes a "Jazz is prose," type of situation, and I'm in the land of Guaranteed and Bona Fide, so I lay down sideways, spy a grey mouse and am broke peasantry. I'm all "I'm into Mouse." Rodent becomes a symbol of Hopkinseqsue Christlike indelibility. So I go Vedanta. I go to Ogun. "Lay it down, Ishtar," and so forth. Mouse dies a lonely. So I go Sunni and save my seeds on my window sill, look down at Sergeant Gentry, banging his clubs, slinging his slugs. Sunni sprouts into a degradation system of sound based on human vocalizations older than corn or distinctions such as English Irish Black White Prose Poetry Legit Il- and scales are born, based on the inflections of early hominid voice patterns- calling for help, birth, pray, orgasm, death gasp, mastodon feast, and so on. So we've bargained. Got Celia Cruz, got Django and Van Morrison, too. Not too mention Robert Johnson's eyeball in the sky, blood-dirt homes of the self. Carl Jung? Come on, man. Brakhage, Berryman, DiPrima. Orgones a-plenty! "Not a bad bargain, baby" I says to Self here in the land of corn. Indeed, not at all...