Deus Ex Machina in the Repairshop

Under sonambulistic

street lamps
I wait
for a zombie taxi

that never arrives.

Awake and realizing

the insect symphony
was only a dream,
life is but
a long bus ride to Beijing,
a frigid Martian winter,

a thrill less trilling than

a stoic Tuesday Tea.

Imagination dissipates like

birthday candle smoke.

Reason ceases.

Leave it be,
and no more Mr. Spock logic, please.

It didn't save Socrates
nor Aristophanes.
Their chariot,
missing a motor,
is in John's Garage,
unreliable
like so-called friends.
I don't ask anymore.
Forget begging, pleading.
Here, just take a piece.
Night will not speak.
It cries to Canopus,
but won't look in my eyes.
Even Jesus
called the Candy Man for relief.
His wife answered,
"No product till Thursday.
He's visiting Coeur d'Alene."
"But I'm dying on a cross."
"Can't help you, Lord,"
she hung up the phone.
Day fled into night,
and the cock crowed
lowly

Ee-i, ee-i, oh.