Postscript to Witch’s Pit 2
    With Alternates

A hundred thousand ate acid like manna-hungry Jews
in wilderness rain and me straight, black eyed
            with Christ
            at Woodstock,
    By day Hendrick’s guitar
    torque converting notes of
            Star Spangled
            Banner took us
            by mimicking
MI-34 helicopter where the bombs dropped;
            by campfires
drums and flute purged the slug among pickled foetus,
    sharks teeth, and neo Nietzschean T.V.
        body counts;
    burning Buddhist monks forced us
    beyond borders to the enemy’s heart.
"If we are our brothers
    keepers then..."
    Heather shocked theta waves till
        Chaplainesque nights
were floodgates of laughter where sinesmilla
            forever altered
    my epistemic roots.
    As i kindly refused hippie Thetis
            of shining breasts
            devoutly murmuring
            susurrus that
my beloved at Rouen grave site would sing hosannas,
    blazing wild lights of azure sky for eyes
        dripping Revlon
    on hospital gown,    enraptured
        like a Chagall character
fighting gravity with Holy Spirit,    my beloved buried
    the placenta.
        My beloved’s "Ave Maria"
helium bound with our child’s soul was floating
        beyond the Impressionist
    Above us at Woodstock the night flight of
    migratory birds recalled lean and craggy
strength of
cranes rustling
gecko leaves
    We are like cranes
    to gambol
        in the moon’s
It’s a sin to kill an elephant
that’s why I want to do it.
It’s the only sin you can
go out and buy a license for
    before committing.
Through binoculars from the jeep
so majestic in tall savannah grass
above it’s knees the African
elephant makes one believe in
human insignificance as compared
    to God’s glory.
It’s a sin to kill an elephant;
the drums always start with White
    hunter Black heart.
Incidentally, had i told the truth
i would now be a cake of soap.
        The eye of Hurricane Georges
passes over Key West
        giant Burger King signs clutter
        streets near the sea wall where
        are smashed to worthless scraps
                chance shocks
to hubris in the game of life.
            On the charter Purple Haze
4 days deep sea searching for swordfish
            off the Florida Keys,
        today September 26th, 1998
        from the cabin of Purple Haze
i dream my wife J.A.
and aborted child daughter with bronze afro
        are spirit leaping
        kicking up sand
        from the whispering mouths
        of perfumed hyacinths
        along the River of Life
            with Buckfullerance
            in New Jerusalem.
No sun. No moon. No stars.
            The New Physics:
there are no shadows:
            God is center stage
        all light, all love only without
            homeless stealing home.
Outside the gates
        reprobates and whores,
            lovers of lies
            snarl and snap
            slathering like rabid dogs.

E. O. Anthony