Opus Glossolalia ("I Say to My Soul...")

Brash, bathetic mendicants
occasion many contretemps
but still, there’s much myopia
in decadent Dystopia:

Wrapped in dark ignominy,
I tune out the cacophony –
until a satisfying hum
pervades the auditorium.

I say to my soul,
“I don’t like you,
and you don’t like me -
but what can we do?

We have to make peace.
We have to be brave
until one of us dies,
and the other is saved.“

I’m a savory fricandeau,
And you’re an impresario:
You calmly sidle up to me,
and I become a fricassee.

I’m the Pasha of Capacious
Carapaces. You’re the ace of
hemispheric glossators:
will you be my barometer?

I say to my soul,
“I don’t like you,
and you don’t like me -
but what can we do?

We have to make peace.
and we have to be brave
until one of us dies,
and the other is saved.“

Rectors, rakes and mountebanks
have crashed the disingenuous ranks
of sated, jaded sybarites,
who only come on Friday nights.

Barflies, gadflies, fly-by-nights
and pixies hold each other tight
while termagants in overcoats
fill colanders with creosote.

I say to my soul,
“I don’t like you,
and you don’t like me -
but what can we do?

We have to make peace.
and we have to be brave
until one of us dies,
and the other is saved.“

Opus Glossolalia:
It smells like Ars Botanica
and sounds like several seraphim
are heckling the Sanhedrin.

Opus Glossolalia:
it’s Kali on the glockenspiel,
while Basho mans the metronome
and Harpo hides the megaphone

I say to my soul,
“I don’t like you,
and you don’t like me -
but what can we do?

We have to make peace.
We have to be brave
until one of us dies,
and the other is saved.“