A lamppost named Mark

this is part six, read from the beginning

Anna Signpost, famous clairvoyant— an Isle of Mann, none the less—
knew just the right place to wait for the right time.
When finally she spoke— with two tall hands and a wicked pack of smokes,
and no regard for rhythm, reason or rhyme—

“We Post-post-modern Gods redeem
our holy sky, bigoted sheen, 
with poems and narrative dreams.

“Eleven, thirty-two, both minus one;
Jai-alai bottle of visible ink.
I’ve heard that old song, how Finnegan wakes—
rose et al. stone throw through.

“See how they fall?
See how they rise and fall?
Opposing end to opposing end— endlessly sine curving:
Lamppost and window; populist, poet;
the odd then even; the sledgehammer and the swan.”

“But cannot I form?  Cannot I create?
Another world, another verse,
to overbear and crumble this to naught?”

“Have you forgot?—
the riddle, riddle, kick-fade to black?”

“But where do we stand?
On what mountain plant our feet,
so to yell at the skies?”

“Socratic Mark, don’t dim, don’t dim,
emphatic barks of lyrical sin— 
revel, revolve, revolution.
Berlin Walls, Jerusalem Gates,
depleted Plutonium concentrate—
revel, dissolve, revolution.
Window open to elsewheres unknown,
meditate on a balcony prayer throne—
revel, revolve, evolution.

“That mountain
is named Populism.”

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