Thotheneus Hoth

                           THE TRUTH ABOUT DON QVIJOTE

            Dulled by mania's beastly charge,

            virtue's noble dodge

            as if to quicken if not fillip

            ginger-up, energize

            chivalry's incredulous once-

            upon-a-time, a time rooted

            to those grave hours of des-

            pair and (of late) train-robbery,

            Alonso Don Qvijote set out

            from the silk marquee

            of Wilhelm Marstrand's ill-

            ustrious print, announcing

            between howls of how he had grown weary--

            living in tireless arrant fictions of knight stories--

            that while dispirited, beat, surfeited, and (yes,

            almost surely) played-out from playing hero

            and yet the mythical clown, both Mario and (well)

 

            Luigi* for such a run out punch-line of yarn

            he had mounted, topped-out the well-thumbed

            windmill that went by the name of Goliath

            and was writing his latest correspondence

           

            from the titled shoulder of this so-called giant,

            drinking a Rustic Ridge IPA followed by his other hand

            of a Highland Thunderstruck Coffee, a porter

            which one might make out by the clipped nail

 

            of moonlight, which ebbing milk-white, hailed

            the Unicorn of the Flemish Tapestries

            where the hounds once circled the aefre

            for which there are no words to suffice

            the minutes that passed as hours,

            the hours that passed as seconds,

            the seconds that passed as days,

            the days that passed as months

            for a year that might have been

            from such a tale of paladin yarn

            yet was and is of such presence

            no one could strike match

            and burn his presence from reality,

            a reality which for some rung out

            as 'total nightmare' as father and son

            read on and read on and read on . . .

            

            

            

                

 * : Luigi--related to 'dilhouette,' which may be translated as

"the silhoette of a dick."