Shades of Sheogorath

For Michael Kirkbride

How many dead heroes add up to one almighty Talos?
All of them, of course. But that was an easy one.
He’s no St. Jiub, Talos. Also not sure how to feel
About those Nord overtones, honestly.
Dare I say old Campbell went a little overboard
In his quest to unify all the narratives?
A hero is really just someone with a problem
And time on their hands.
But the time on our hands is the whole problem.

Contamination of dream by reality has been a wrinkle
Since the followers of Francis Bacon
Started cutting up dogs just to see what was really inside them.
None of the predecessors
of the Darwinian materialist consensus
Ever bothered to ask
What kind of world you get if you have to constantly check
To see what kind of world it is.
Well, look around: pretty fucking lumpy.
Lumps all the way down-even gravity,
And if ever there were a phenomenon
Crying out to be made smooth
It’s Newton’s great generalization,
But if you check the chart, the theorists
Have a special lump for it too
Although blessedly no one has seen that one yet.
Subatomic play-along is the name of the game
But the clue to this whole drama is that the universe
Doesn’t bippity bop it’s boo until it has too.
You gotta love you some o’ dat old time metaphysical reluctance.

Nevertheless, we should probably thank the fact checkers.
Without a new pair of ombudsman eyes being born every minute
All the grandmas would have spit-roasted the world
Just so they could see Jesus striding across the new Miltonic hellscape
Where once there sat a perfectly serviceable shopping mall
In the last seconds before Old Yahweh whisked their souls away
To be with that self-same Jesus.
Not enough to die into your due reward, it’s all about the timing-
Mutual ontological orgasm
Entails simultaneous organism/world death.
If it were all just a game of competing wills to power
The olds would have found a way to pull the ladder
And the world it was standing on
All the way up with them, selfish bastards,
And the children always such a small price to pay
For one final Apocalyptic thrill-ride.

Anyway, chunky vanilla-flavored has its virtues is all I’m saying.
Sure, this where-when is especially boring,
And all the where-whens in the near future
Dare to eclipse our now with even greater vistas of banality,
But it’s easy enough to abandon these strict confines,
Slip sideways into engineered pocket dimensions.
Mythopoesis is mainly about dodging the bullet trains
Raining on the Spanish plains,
And if you’re going to do the dance it helps
to know the difference between turning and strafing.

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