Mystic naked plunges, frozen icicles of smoky haze
Rot in the light of forty-two torches, lost in the maze
Hov’ring ‘neath the shadows of contagious sound blaring
Reaping what’s been sown: the sins we are wearing
Smelling fragrant illusions and all the while knowing
That nothing dead is worth the expensive showing
Watching empty caskets their numbers steadily growing
Floating down dry rivers still roughly flowing
Roaming ‘cross vast unseen and unwanted expanse
Winning ev’ry hand, taunting the face of chance
Losing only that most ethereal and necessary notion
Loving nothing, as the heart ceases all motion
Rising above all depths, never quite seething the moment
Speaking only the words: “At this time, No Comment.”
The original was contained in a letter to longtime friend S.A.J.