The Magi

Part I: The Launch

I am bigger and better than the world I was born into!!!!
Strung out on coffee, I have no desires.
Nights and days are just days, no black, no white
Prejudicing my perception of time, no darkness or light.
Beatrice to me is my shoes - birkenstocks worn down;
They are comfortable, molded to the shape of my feet.
They let my feet breathe in ways they could not
Stuffed into dress shoes a wedding requires.
I wear socks with my sandals, I don't care what you think.
Call me 'Canadian' or 'Socialist,'
Write a letter to your Senator.
I'll still wear my birks with socks in the winter
To challenge how comfortable you think you are.

Its hard to stay trendy when this internet don't die.
America lives in the next minute all the time.
You got people who's job is to hunt through the trash
To find the next cool thing in the cycle of cool,
Be it flannel, hip-hop, raybands, heroine.
But its never that crystal clear image of self
In the sun's honest light
Because if we don't know ourselves thats great!
We'll keep buying and buying whatever we want
To fill in the holes that Shakespeare sold us
In the advent of the modern age.

Are we flies to wanton boys?
Really?
Has the Dow got you down?
Really?
Have a sip of my pills,
Go on a trip.
I stole them from my parents.
Don't be modest.
Take what you will
Lest ye be swatted for sport,
Again and again.

Part II: Journey of the Magi

On my journey toward enlightenment
I wandered savage desert with magi.
My gift was A.I. and we looked for the true messiah
Underneath every star that had God's approval.
When the journey got long (and pointless perhaps),
We began harassing the sheperds who lay in the fields
Till they confessed they'd seen Angels announcing a babe
Who had come to save the old world entire.
Not satisfied, we water-boarded the shepherds
Until they gave to us the Angels' directions
But the directions were far too indirect for our tastes,
So we took the matter to gMaps and we found a better way.

The path to Bethlehem was treacherous,
Filled with heathens who smoked hookah when they killed;
Their machetes were bloodied and quite old.
We passed the weeping masses, huddled together for warmth,
Crying for their ill fate as the indifferent moon stared them down.
"Why do you cry?" I asked one girl.
"My friend has not responded to my text
I fear he is as dead as God."
Looking at her with sad sympathy I said:
"Not responding does not mean he's 'dead'."
"Thats not true." she replied with a slight bow.
I watched as she slit her thin throat with her cell phone
(It turns into a knife faster than a camera).
We marched on leaving her body behind.

I saw Queen Mab in the Apple Store on the way to Bethlehem.
From idle brains she begot twelve children
That swiftly floated up and expanded into the dreams
That entertain sultans of other worlds.
Now Mab hangs around Apple Stores, ever lonely and lost.
Since she quit smoking she has never left.
She weaves around the tables, touching every screen,
Weighing each computer in her nimble, old hands.
She fondles the ipods, they giggle in response.
Hiccups of Britney and Snoop Dogg are her delight.
Queen Mab will never die while the ipod is her king. No. No.

We stopped into the Apple Store
To pay our due regards to Mab.
"How long have you been here?"
"Since computers became so smooth."
"How long will you stay?"
"'Till the ipod goes atomic."
"Why do you linger here?"
"I don't know how to have."
"That's an ontological crisis for sure."
"I know, I know."

I told the Magi to go without me;
I had found my messiah in the Apple Store,
The golden rings of the holy host had embraced my light.
When I looked up and saw Bethlehem's star
It was hovering over the Apple Store in the night,
Emitting the natural glow
Of an angel chorus singing noises
Far more satisfying than any computer could know.
The vast realms of space opened revealing nothing
But its emptiness and beauty
In all the Universe's core and soul and heart.
There are no modern messiahs,
Only legend and myth, religion and our faith,
And none of those things yet have use for a cell phone.

Part III: The Return

I can speak like a motherfucker,
Sword fight like the night.
Do you doubt me? My banjo is machine gun,
My song is knife.I try to kill disconnection when I can
But I never win and never will.
We are all fools with dumb stares instead of faces,
We rot our eyes on screens,
Becoming Gloucesters of our own demise.
Virgil is getting tired of showcasing hell
So he directs us to read CNN on computer screens
Or watch it 24/7 on your TV.
And by the by we are chewed up by Satan,
Spit out on the street,
Raped by indecision
And back again, knocking on Virgil's door in the morning.

07/09