The Tragical History of the Epicurean Grail

Genesis: the way the father used to hurry
a midsummer night's eve into a fateful fall,
glowing eyes transfixed on the gross income
of a parched and dirty amateur at law.
The past was mashed out in a bright green bowl
of apocalyptic peppers, the blandly mild sauce
of the Order of the Older Year—the nonchalance
that would hang Madonna on the balance
of a grander generation, stuck up between
the silhouette of an ancient virtuoso's mistress
and another shadow stapled to the wall.

But then, of course, the mother used to say
that the only way to kill a mockingbird
was to use the seed, and she believed—believed
that somewhere was the nearer of all the moon's prayers
and that angels painted portraitures of hobgoblins
in Tucson, hoary lights gurgling a prismatic Rubik,
the catastrophe validating a resigned hope for a better
ticket. But today was yesterday, and tomorrow, today
would still be today, salted corn tortilla shards stained
with the blood of a far more cunning javanero prophet—
the last page in the history of a not-so-magic mirror.

Revision (29 February 2008)

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The Tragical History of the Epicurean Grail (original)

A vaguely tumultuous emerald aptitude dipped
crisply in a summer vacuum sauté compliments
dutiful phrases parsed by serpentine tongues—
philandering pages bathed in paper mache swatches
by a parched and dirty amateur at law, defense
attorney. Apocalyptic apple, the sauce of the Order
of the Older Year, remembers how Madonna was hanged
on the balance of a grander generation, stuck up between
something throwing shadows on the wall and the silhouette
of an ancient virtuoso's mistress, corrupted
by the realization of a far more perfect carbohydrate.

But then, of course, the mother used to say
that the only way to kill a mockingbird
was to use the seed, and so believed—believed
that somewhere was the nearer of all the moon's prayers
and that angels painted portraitures of hobgoblins
in Tucson, hoary lights gurgling a prismatic Rubik,
the catastrophe validating a resigned hope for a better
ticket. Today is yesterday, and tomorrow, today will
still be today, salted corn tortilla shards stained
with the blood of a far more cunning javanero prophet—
the last page in the history of a not-so-magic mirror.

Original (22 January 2008)