The forces that put a plug in John Lennon are so evil
It’s like examining poop or filthy war cadavers or true insanity
Sometimes it’s healthiest to leave radiating Owl medicine beakers mostly untouched
As I spoke these unexpected dirt words in a bold voice
At our writing club forum, within the church a shadow
Like form that had been eavesdropping on our group from an adjacent quarter
Quickly rose and whooshed over to the furthest corner of the tiny chapel
Actually knocking over a floral vase with a revealing crash in its hasty retreat
From within the vase spilled out a wet copy of that rare edition comic book
This was the same one that Science fiction writer Phillip Dick always yearned for in his reoccurring poverty dreams
An unfunny back page of the colored comic unfolded to reveal a paradigm
Shift so intense that our assemblage felt as though we were
Under a weird and wonderful magnetic force
We could feel it in our cheeks, our frontal lobes churned like soft liquidey whirling gears
We started remarking to each other that our facial colours were intensifying
In sprays and swirls of dark pinkish signatures
Icy hot faces rapidly reddened
This was definitely a new experience
Two of our group were driven to hold mirrors a league apart
And a member with spirited vision
Glimpsed into the next dimension for a nanohour
As Pluto anchored forward, like a skittering gnat -progressing one inch
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The shadow returned to its bottle as we adjourned
I jumped in the truck and
Dialed the radio in on some crystal blue persuasion
And listened for hours until Paul Simon cried
One more time about December 8, 1980
Then I drove home and scribbled out on the hidden side of a tiny fortune cookie paper:
Did Hinckley think he was somehow paying back society in some sick way for the ill deed cast upon John Lennon? Then for the rest of evening I picked through meaningless anagrams for “Mark David Chapman.”
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