Pandemonium

Leading the charge, the Baba King, also known as Boobalah, has a bottle of vodka and a silver topped cane. The Banana Queen, as always, bandanna in hand is chanting Hosannas and howling at the erstwhile moon. Fractured images! You can't see the whole picture. Its a is Picasso had a few too many and started in. Here a head, there a breast, over there a hand...
But the chaos isn't enough. Boobalah has grasped a bottle of some sexual stimulant, and he is rubbing it on the wall. "This was always such a cold house!" he bellows. Then he collapses into the lotus position to sprout "Oms".
Live Doug is above it all - literally. He is hovering about 4 feet above the ground, an incredulous look on his face. "Have we crossed into the world of myth?" he asks. The Banana Queen just snorts.
Somewhere beyond the chaos, sirens are rising up and this causes a new eruption of laughter in the room. Outside in the glum, the sun is rising, but its light is so subtle behind the clouds that only the narrator notices. The others are rapt in the revels, gleefully pursuing panick.
Cindy Sue is worried that the neighbors might complain, so she goes downstairs and knocks on the door. The neighbor, wrapped in a flannel robe angrily answers with "do you know what time it is?" But when he realizes that Cindy Sue is naked, and beautiful, his protestations disappear.
"We are having a magickal event upstairs," she says. "Would you like to join us?"
In his abode, Pan is laughing. Although not present in body, his spirit has touched the room. Can more panick be far behind?
Meanwhile, the singer is approaching the Government Center T station. His gear is ready, his voice limber. Suddenly he is infected with the mania at the magickal event, and he smiles to himself, thinking that today will be a very good day. When he steps down from the train, the diameter is glowing with a signal energy he has never seen before. He dashes to the pitch. Not bothering with the more sophisticated stuff today, he hooks up a power amp, a lone speaker and the microphone, leaving all else in its place. And he sits on a milk crate, begins chanting lightly. Before long he too is in a panick revery and he sees the air crackling with power, seething with the panick influences. A little girl steps up to him. She begins to dance, as furiously as a dervish. Her father begins to pull her back, but before he knows what is happening, his wife too has begun to spin, and he feels his circumference demanding expressing and he spins as well.
By ten o clock, the entire platform is full of whirling people. They have filled the place, including the tracks and the trains are frozen in the tunnels. A boy with food drums has set up next to the singer, and he is pounding out new rhythms to buoy the chanted words. Somehow the power is reaching everywhere. Outside the station, people are beginning to tune in. A man in the Radio Shack right across the street from the station has abandoned his clothes and is standing in the window display, urinating on a television set. His day manager is crying in the back room, convinced that Jesus has been talking to her on the internet. "Its the Millenium Falcon!" She says.
By the time the sun is fully up, the city has lost itself in the revel. When Gabriel blows his horn, there is nobody able to hear it! Crestfallen, he slinks back to heaven, to try again another day.

Secrets in a Voice


There are secrets hidden that can be heard in a voice.
If you listen, very carefully, the tones are there,
concealed beneath rhythm and breathing,
behind thought and intention.
The secrets are deep, though rarely dark.
A well schooled ear can hear them,
detect tone and tympani,
record tempo and temerity, visualize all.
I was walking one day in the snow.
It was late in the winter, and the ground was far below, under feet of it.
The snow from the past weeks was compact, though not at all slick,
a fine coat of powder covered all.
The voice was that of my companion.
She had taken my arm.
It was so cold, you see,
that the lenses of her glasses
had first misted, then frozen solid.
Helpless without them, she took my arm and
let me lead her home like a blind girl.
But as we walked, I could feel the warmth
of her breath on my cheek and smell her breath,
scented with the tea we’d drunk earlier.
An she whispered to me, a poem by Eliot I think,
that poem by Eliot I love so well, “Little Gidding”
and we did not cease from exploration that night.
Despite the cold, we walked until the dawn,
watching the sun coax improbable pinks from the snowcoat.
In her voice, gently whispering poetry, I heard bright secrets,
secrets that revealed not the darkness
of night but what was brilliant, hard and good there.
In her voice I heard the music of
not one God, by many.
Hearing her voice there so close to my ear,
magic was made and Gods were conjured,
pink like spinning roses in the early morning twilight.
We followed a dazzling path threaded through
drifts and plowpiles,
with warm colors that belied the frost of the Earth.
Finally we found our way back home to breakfast.
She said to me:
“If you listen carefully to the sound the sausage makes as it cooks,
you can hear secrets there. The secrets are deep, though rarely dark.
I can teach you if you want, to hear those secrets.”
After the meal, fullbellied, we went our separate ways,
she to her bed and I to mine.
Now and forever I hear the secrets that she taught to me,
and I feel her hand on my arm. Even now I feel the warm
breath and hear the words as she speaks them still.