The New White Wisdom

Old pentacostal poet, how do you do!
I wonder about the ghost vessels
in your eye, the leftover batch
of secrets you forgot to allow
into the ministry of tragedie
we go and go in again like lapses.
Tonight the stars travel along with us
as they always have but incognito
putting their merry making aside
for these awful years that just
continue as your commentary drones
and with such delightful phrases,
it's darling and easy, maybe even
evil or at least, quite selfish.
If we could only count backwards
instead of regress like this
from the hard wood podiums
evangelically all one syllable,
touting toadstool, beach goer, dance partner.
Let's get one word and describe it
in the elegant patois of the leech!
The way we used to mumble
before the advent
of time itself, such a mysterious eon
it was before the door slammed,
the coffin nailed, the arms of eternity
beckoned and the black distrusted
us with so many blank checks
and thus created the same old game.
Rewind us please for old times' sake
back to where we left off
not yet evolved and remembering
something else or nothing at all,
just pleased to be rid of the dragons
and very very white, not yet laughing.