I.
I've been mad lately, trying to sort it out, what's real
and what's become of the archetypes I was wont to lean on
for comfort in the rain (you know, metaphor: hurt, ouch, sting).
What became of the Hero, for instance, and the Golden Ball?
Where went the wow of Wagner's Prelude to Lohengrin
that once brought tears with strings that sighed in awe?
Was the 60s all an illusion, gone in a puff of magic smoke?
Did Abbie the clown prince of levity and street theater
never teach the piggies in the trough at Wall Street
or negotiate a settlement for how high he'd levitate the Pentagon?
Why does the laughter seem so hollow now, like a tolling bell
that marks the end of time and the end of freedom?
.
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