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."
