Thor grooves to Eric Dolphy.
He's getting slowly, sweetly hammered
in a swirling bacchanal of jazz & gin.
The ice in his glass, the tock
of the hammers on the bones, the tones--
he readies himself for "Bags" Milt Jackson.
Outside the woodpecker taps
until the sap's
running freely. Nature's black-
board's not been erased in months
and all its lessons are lost
in a tangle of chalk, dust finer
than reason. Rahsaan Roland Kirk
chants, intimately, and to Thor alone:
Clickety clack! Clickety clack!
Somebody's mind done got off
the goddamn track.
Thor is invincible. Who needs these
looky-loos? Thor thunders over his gin-and-olive
picnic, lightning being his forte.
He's beginning to think
he thinks in italics. For no reason at all,
Thor longs for spring. Persephone's a gas,
always good for a laugh,
perpetually in the mood to romp,
cross-cultural conflict be damned.
Perseph's favorite come-on is Thor's
best parroting of Wittgenstein:
"Quote. Some bullshit. Quote, quote."
She loves it when he flashes
his philosopher's badge. "Are you ready, baby,"
he calls, "'Cause we're making some poetry tonight!"