Tony Barnstone: Psychedelic Apocalypse Blues

In the seam of the universe there was a psychedelic glow, and no, it

was not the Taj Mahal like a dancing bangled god,

not blue lights under the tables and glasses glowing in the palm tree

bar and the curved moon carving the black roast of the sky,

not the sculpture’s praise of stone in solemn columns of brightness

raised,

not the documentary titled Life or the plink plunk of Vegas water-lights

flashing like coins into a tray.

 

It was the dollar dropped into the jar for cussing at God.      

It was an ice cube melting below the fridge like a secret parable.

It was the mercury rising from the sludge by the pier up through the

great chain of being all the way to the sushi bar in Brentwood.

It was the poplars darkening with the chirring of wings and the clicking

of mandibles and the black legs and carapaces, slick as glass.

It was the breading of broken light around the black hole suck.

It was toe jam football and life in the crossfire and Robert Johnson at

the crossroads playing like the devil at the edge of storm.

It was the dog put down and going up in hot loving ash.

It was a little sparkle of But I really love that woman, can’t stand to

leave her be, before the late edition news of the apocalypse,

and Let there be darkness beginning to circulate, circulate, to

circulate.