Gog and Magog, acrylic & ink, 24" x 30," $600
The Voyages of Dr. Kissinger
Holy Cow Peace Maker of Diaspora Inc.,
His Excellency awaits the trade of Omar's Dome,
while Shias and Sunis hi-ho--
never-you-mind-- "Eeny, meeny, miney, moe,
I'll catch a Kissinger by the toe."
In Jerusalem he remembers the words of Horace:
Nil admirari. Or vieleicht nicht.
In Cairo dans la Societe Anonyme d'Aphrodite
Anooan Mahmood Sadat ( bathing in Tokay
and Roussillon) barks, "It's in the bag!"
Scheherazade-like I see it all: blue and gold,
the jack-in-the-box next to El Askar.
GUTTURAL, GUTTERAL, GUTTERAL, GUTTERAL.....
On his lap Spinoza's De emendatione humani
intellectus, proper, respectable,
Nobel-prize stuff. And sipping
a Mouton-Rothschild '29 K soon sheep-counts
his way to eternity. Shhh. Mum's the word.
In the Great Hall the menu:
Shanghai Duck phalanxed by Seaweed Fu,
Ostrich Egg Soup gold-tinted
with Angel Fish, Cantonese UFOs,
Grapevines a la Lao Tzu.
And then the fortune cookie:
"Says Chairman Mao-- 'Not here
the time-stains of Europa,
Hyperion, and Nestor of Gerenia.'"
In this samizdat K sees
the Hegelian three-step
goosestepping down the middle-lane.
Yet the table-talk, the dry rattle
from the throat, the reminiscences
of Selassie's salt-and-pepper throne,
of Generalissimo SPQR
on the late-late-show--
yes, how alma-materish to be whisked
through third-world rigmaroles
to zero in so gesundheit on bloodfeuds,
and to jabber at the eleventh hour,
"A souvlaki for your thoughts.
C'est moi, NATO Prometheus."
Amidst the Chinese ack-ack
far from Anglo-Saxondom's quarterback
another bumper crop of nuclear chit-chat.
At Yad Veshem, like a cardio-tachograph
of his memories, the scrape of metal
had made its point: Big Daddy Rockefeller,
Now louder than a scrub woman
Alma Mom screached it out, "An Essene
with the soul of a cockroach!" Quietly,
her aria finished, glassy-eyed,
Golda pinched the microseconds
for his reply. Once in the Carleton
Hotel in Cannes a jellabahed Greek
had shot kamikaze-like through
the paparazzi and, presto!.....
lest suicidology be the order
of the day, he stiffened,
his Olympianism threatened.
If given the Three Magic Wishes
of the Good Fairy, His Excellency
would suggest that from Clio's shards
Metternich at this point would smile.
Far from kvetching Cappadocia
K alone-- de contemptu mundi--
fingers the cultural commissar's
Tauchnitz editions of Rudyard Kipling.
Two martinis and a delirium tremens later
Nelson's in-crowd ogles fancy fondues.
But to K an upgush of memories:
from Sarejevo horse-and-buggy days
Oswald Spengler's snail's pace
now a frightened beast
rushing towards a rendezvous
with Mecca's cyclical snooze.
And then amidst the metropolitan sing-song
first there were the couldn't-care-lessers
statued by history's oohs and ahs.
And then Phemios, Antikleia, Arete,
and Zeus Kronion's Autolykos
at the fosse bloodied by Excalibur's cut:
spooks cheek-to-jowl, rock-candy-like, skin-deep,
caryatids in the gothic gloom,
catacombish visitors from Blenheim
and Agincourt and Dunkirk;
and the organ Almorgado hallelujahing,
and the chorus Nagasaki hosannahing;
and then Dizzy, Philistia's whatchamajig
from Walthamstow, rushing past Eumaios
and Eurymakhos to embrace K by the hollow ditch
near Newton's slab; and from a dozen triumvarites