Crypticism

Ladies and gentlemen, tonights are the nights that define us

     and who we are as sad melodies inform us of our circumstances

Never forget me, and the adobe winds that whistle salvation

     across jersy shores at midnight where narrow eyed journalists

     were burned alive

And live by the scruffy-bushed portraits of veterans resting on our

     sequoian mantle and by the indignant flames nestled in our

     limestone hearths

Our times are ruminating on the golden arches of ronald raptures

     and the souls of rescued rappers; Whitman and Ginsberg are weeping

Take root in the honesty of Patagonia and Adirondack lapping the

     summations of Navajo chronicles and the butcher allegories of

     Constantinople

Dream of the Vatican and Oz on the same naked night and you will

     know the bruised bones of us iridescent holograms