Musings on a Thursday, Mid-Richard III

Musings on a Thursday, Mid-Richard III

Charon tap-dances a rat-tat–tat in old soft shoe syncopation. . .
A little patter of sand and he is stylin’
Spoiling for a bit of high falooting crapshoot
This little ride each day is a smooth lie
No screeching shades awaiting that comical short ride to the other side
No obolos heaved into the tada hand outstretched
And no cane hauling the unlucky off the Apollo Stage
No, this is just a routine as old as the minstrel shows
Older than that – old as a crone’s cackle on the mountaintop
“there are no gods here.”
We overturn so many stones in our search for meaning
Ponder petty boxes for the correct designation for teaching truth
Or untruth
And this ride, this carnival of rolling, rolling, rolling
“Good madam, be not angry with the child” from Richard III
We do what we can and load our little sinking ferry
Haul them to the rim of Cocytus
Sprinkle the Lethe upon their brows in an attempt to baptize
Acheron’s swollen, soggy brine banks bear footprints our own feet fit
And yet, we wait
Interminably for that damned ride each year --
Or is it just eternity masked by the mystique of science vs. art?
“The waters swell before a boisterous storm.
But leave it all to God. Whither away?” so mentions a citizen in London’s street.
The abortive little hog cursed by Margaret sits in the back of this boat
Seamus Heaney hauls a bit of turf onto this floating barnacle of humanity
And I, I, I, am up there holding the oar while Charon, little minimus
Parades like so many pretty young things on MTV
Capering, preening and generally enjoying the hell out of this strange trip.