So Hobo wobbled there at the peak of the Arch.
Woozy-dizzy in that crystalloid high air – yet
felt no vertigo. Afloat nearby, his aerial scout-
master spun flips & twirls in her cloud-Cadillac.
Awake yet, lazy Russkie? she tooted his way.
Yes, but... what’s yr name? said he. Call me
Sacajawea today, why don’t you... since we’ll be
tasting the 6 directions – ancien sacre Jambalaya
journée. But take a look around. Hobo turned
against the slow pavane he felt already – as if
on a rainbow turtle’s back – edging the cliff-
face of the universe – myhrn-eye purled
like a sturdy gyroscope, sapphire-engulfed.
He stood between a sea of wet monsoon-
shields (two? three?) merged at the horizon.
Above, the sky-realm – rove-wings of ruffled
galaxies. Below, four corners of a 50-scarred-
&-striped nation, whose engines blazed eight
candle-cylinders. & in 3rd gear, waltz-light
a mute & melancholy planet opened wide
one tear-filled moat, let flow one milk-moon tide
of River Ocean... avalanche from utmost height
of heaven-land. Maybe now, lapsed eremite,
you might turn over a new leaf! she cried.
Iridium – rhodium – cobalt... she cast her spell
& instantly that waterwhorl was one Black Sea.
Come Lazicum, most artificial burg... the Delta
groaned – Big Muddy, Carib Eye (deep iron bells).