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The seekers descend:
the blonde-maned blue-eyed man,
the sweetly-spoken tiger-eyed sisters,
the sleek Sara gazelle, the lonely orangutant,
Rodan's now quick-moving "Thinker,"
the shining-skeleton silicon-ghost:

They all descend, intent and rapt, from the cave-walls
taking in Elliott Town petroglyphs
of spiritual hunts, concerts, and "junkie dreams,"
now scrawled ruins of teardrop Taj Mahals,
once carefully-ziperred diamond-chains of bohemian memes

Further they descend,
this motley pilgrimmage,
leaving a hubris-hacked neon-light desert above,
down, down the 'dirty dive'
to seek much-needed wisdom from
the mole-man guru,
whose wisdom though sardonic, blunt,
cryptic or even biting
carried in this day
the comparable metaphoric weight
of Delphi's dancing, ranting oracles,
and stroking his dirt-tangled fur
beneath dilated pool-like eyes,
his amethyst visions
took form against similar fumes
from even deeper into the subterannean

but first the seekers:
they must take the mushrooms,
win and lose,
shrink back to kids tongueing sugar off spoons,
but then a grace-eyed green-fairy
brings glassfuls to giantify,
if only to be derided and humbled
by the hookah-hooked caterpillar,
a once-brilliant if buffoonish refugee
from the collapsing, moss-grown psycho-analytic offices
of some aerial ivory-tower
where 60s-mesmerized Dr. Shadows
still energetically puff missile-like cigars,
pick the wild ferns,
and with pleasantly erudite manner ask
hall-dwellers all manner of personal inquiry,
with sincere assurance that it's for the disease,
the mad disease, the human disease,
the madness, the furies, you see,
though they do not specify
that it is the disease that has flourished
so fiercely and floridly below them:

(blocked by a pleasant tundra of clouds)
ghoulish malignancies untreated and even franchised:
banally evil budget-ravishing butchery,
new Eichmans living their careers
as well-dressed and scrappily-socialized computers,
valiantly willing to make the numbers match:
you won't have to look them in their iconic manilla-eyes
when the flawed-file is deleted

Then there are the i-Titan brothers: Ambitious and Rapacious:
idolized big-screen landscaped Hollywood gore-orgies
with snuff-scream ninja scenes:
the kids fill the red chairs in the dark and warm quiet.
Invisible, Puck flies through the air
sprinkling the young hominids with green rebel-dust,
all as the kids themselves feast on pop-corn
watching Vinny take a last swill of Glenfiddich
amid some feral if downright friendly send-offs:
Vinnie's feet death-shoed in plentiful concrete:
The devils' eyes gleam joy, then hold back tears as he passes Vinny
his last Corona drag....
and then, with a pause and a nod,
the sordid-sailors heaved-and-hoed and
tossed him off of the boat to sink surreally
in his brief bubbly nightmare,
soon to be settled on Poseidon's sprawling lightless ocean floor.
and, strangely enough, the Sea God happened to be pacing on just that spot,
swerving his trident about in creative reverie...
the blue God laughed and said, 'save the wretch, save the wretch,"
and he could see in the doomed sailor a stoic surrender:
perhaps even a stoic symphony, or two.

at the underground mall matinee(which differed little from those nearer the sun,) play-ground poundings were normalized and ashamed and explained away by G.I. Joe group-think: "Slaves?" everywhere, known only as their degrees, body profiles and perversities, job descriptions, quota stats and those baptisms and degrees declaiming youthful years of desk-bound mechanical conformity. Good-hearted German socialite ladies in geometric black dresses gaze around the scene and try to fathom what it is: what it could be if properly gardened, giving distant uniformed Maria a sorcerous look.
Others, mostly just interested in passing the time emerge from the descending lands with its furnished rooms, wine-tables, and elegant décor. One of these was the mole-man himself, or the Mole-King. But there were many other guests: lovely French Ladies with sequins on their faces and Rosseau in their eyes, a quirky but likeable man who works in Poseidon's "office of dead letters."
Toward the end in a corner: too many martinis, hands over my head; Closed yellow shells lay about. Then he put his digger-claws over my shoulder and said: "Relax my friend. Maybe this is.... but probably not the end. your journey goes on, and the others need your counsel, or think they do." He lingered there for a moment to see if I needed more but I felt revived enough, didn't want greed, ambition, or any other box for our heads. "Okay." A spiritual awakening had appeared: it was a time to howl, and I did but only later in a remote cave where fewer of the mole-king's subjects would be thus attacked.

I knew tomorrow, I'll feel my power
el corazone will burn within me again,
after a living death,
and I'll be swimming, dining, and dancing
bathing my feet in the sea-weed:
seeing a beach pearl strumming her acoustic guitar,
and looking at me through her swaying grass skirt.
I'd swim and push and love...
I'd swim and push and love...

Vinny is somewhere learning to play the piano and the viola. If he acts out or steals bread from the other musicians, he gets some flogging from the dean, but mostly just questions and encouragement. Hey, "the mole-god" said you have talent to be a composer; That means we have to try I guess. And we'll pay you good: just don't steal our bread or... disturb the guests: you'll catch along. Let me give you an emerald snuff-box; It was given to me by none other than Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. He taught me some piano and some tricks, and I'd love to pass that along. The Octopus Duchess is to thank for your extra luck; She sees you, ground-dweller, blue-eyes and tangled black hair, bubbling in your finis concrete shoes and she sees a rebel, but they're cheap. But also, she said she saw genius in your clear blue eyes as you hung there resigned to the end, as if you'd seen so much you could smile anyway. She said,: "We've got to get him out of those shoes! This one has a life in the finned-world!" She's the boss, so everybody scurried and awaited your revival.
(Sometimes, there is a glorious future even for a crushed fish like Vinny, and neurotic Orangutans can also find love, as the mole-man revealed to us: seeing and saying what was right: giving us potent blessings from the darkness of his own dark and still subterranean. Namaste)

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The following comments are for "the Mole-Man, 'a poetic vignette'"
by seanspacey

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