American Mythville Unbound

 Mythville is the Gaia

of our mutual dreams

A great city lost

A history forgotten

Except in the imagination

It lingers with the muses

A magical floating tablet

perhaps read, if only briefly

within the circle

of the enlightened

But then it can turn

The Mammon mouth

into a random field

of Great Plains tornadoes

laden with lies

the GPS of the mind

in constant liminal polarities

of Visigoth spirits,

pagan portals

of pineal glands

for our pains

and hurts and cries ...

The mind's eye.

The mind's eye!

- Douglas McDaniel

Tolleson, Arizona

Mythville Bookstore

 

Doink

 

Polls close in ten nine eight seconds ...

The human experience

in the blink of unknowing eyes.

Invisible digits of the indivisible.

The truth is out there. Don't believe.

Idaho goes potato. Georgavania

goes uppity Humpty Dumpty's wall.

Florida goes Banana Republican. 

Sudden good places to get shot in Las Vegas

for wearing the wrong color denim jean dreams.

Too call. Too close. Talking heads verbose.

Quaker oats shoved down liberal throats.

The mutant vote. Take note. Take note.

Hear the sacred chords grind to a halt.

To keep up is to try to paint the wind.

Six five for three two to who won ...

Meanwhile, the referees confer

over a simple truth long dead.

Dreary never-ending eons ago.

Sharks will always hunt these waters.

Ballot box numbers both dead & alive.

For a universe no longer in existence.

For society sleeping before it wakes.

Mysterious bruises & blood splatters & sweat.

Rolling clouds of astronomical inconclusive.

We will clearly serve no queen here.

But instead a king in reptilian regalia.

Broken bric-a-brac of Democracy.

Might as well be Greek. Who is white,

who is wrong. Just Italianate me.

~ Douglas McDaniel

Tolleson, Arizona

Mythville Books

Doing it for the Dead

The sky a mile wide.

Election Day, sigh.

Revolutionary world.

Off-balance, tilted.

Mammoth Lake mouthwash

bulging the big spin again.

No change ever the same.

Snakes on the highway.

Rumblin'. Slitherin'.

Noise up the road.

Whistling fast & ready.

Loud enough to make

the deaf read the news.

Ghosts of the Civil War.

Blue & Grey visitations

in the shimmering motion

of Max Earnst dreams.

Ghosts of World War Two.

Walking, lost & vacuum Void.

The tundra is boiling,

sidewalks sweating ooze.

The Who-Knows-Sphere.

Just maybe. Maybe.

What will the deaf see?

Holding tin cups

out for their trickle?

Kitchen table tissues

for mom & dad tears.

What's the fear this year?

Anything is nothing down.

Innocence, in big damn debt

to the banks of the Holy Ghost.

Private panels & levers & checkers.

Who wrong & who white, right?

Kissing couches burning, too.

Potato skins of many races

attached to war-blooded skulls.

Drip, drip. Drubbing-a-dud, duh.

No bandages of grafted skin

ever quite the fractal same.

Dumbing down the vote.

Platonic pole star, democracy.

Forming into formlessness.

Effortless action no easy rider.

No free box in the mountains.

No easy surfers in snarled waves.

Not with Max Earnst at Hiroshima

painting bones into patches of flesh.

Dreams of green SUVs 

filled with Vietnam dead.

O hillbilly pollster super car

churning up the dust of dunces.

Lacking ever-loving verbs,

lacking the woody words.

I'll vote with a prayer,

do a ghost dance

& leave a lonely sign:

Please do not disturb.

~ Douglas McDaniel

Tolleson, Arizona

Mythville Books