Out of the Aeneid

Out of the Aeneid

Next door a rooster inscribes

his cry on the living cosmos.


Overnight my hair has become

a nest of aluminum foil


to short out government broadcasts

intended to singe my brain.


I dreamed of taking the bus

to the Bronx and getting lost


among tall brick apartments

that observed me with disdain.


A plump and eager woman

came along to sing to me


in rooster cries so metallic

they scorched me stupid enough


to lose my bus fare and strand

myself in a neighborhood facing


the Hudson River, steamy

with summer evening mist.


The plump woman abandoned me

and I awoke in a dazzle of stars.


Today a thunderstorm will bulk

the horizon and threaten me


with a personal thrust of lightning

straight out of the Aeneid.


My aluminum hair will draw

more voltage than the Hoover Dam


generates with massive turbines.

The government will broadcast


news of my illumination,

which will gratify the Vatican.


The plump woman will rise from

her own dream of the Bronx


and try to remember the name

of that fellow she met on the bus.


Before the thunder unfolds

I’ll shower, shave, and breakfast


in tones so muted the rooster

will go back to sleep, and maybe


the oncoming storm will greet

my humble stance with pity.