My death was a dark hole
in midtown Cincinnati
into which I a bookish man of uncertain years
stumbled one moonless night
and plummeted deep into the earth,
free falling head over ass,
landing on my hands and knees
in the fourth century bce,
stunned by the Mediterranean sun
that guided me through Athenian streets
to a lavish banquet in the Parthenon.
There I donned, in the style of the day,
a loose fitting garment and feasted
in the company of Plato,
whom I asked in a quiet aside
if the tale he wrote about Atlantis
was true or the figment of too much ouzo,
to which Plato replied,
a hint of tolerant amusement in his eyes,
but I despite my bookish ways was perplexed
because Plato had a mouthful of loukanika,
or because I had never mastered classic Greek.
So I leaned on Plato’s shoulder and asked
that he repeat what he said but this time slowly,
as I scribbled the words in pidgin phonetics,
bid the patient philosopher goodbye,
fingered my newly acquired worry beads
and boarded a boat out of Piraeus,
which wrecked near the Pillars of Hercules
where I slipped into a swoon,
waking up on a sequestered Florida beach
surrounded by nudists who ran me out of town
for wearing a sheet.
Wisely I took a Greyhound to New York City,
camped in a park off Washington Square
and, when someone stole my toga,
sought refuge with a friend in the Village,
until word of my encounter with Plato got around
and I was invited to all the TV talk shows,
attracting the attention of scholars everywhere,
largely because I was a voice without form.
Great minds gathered in a Village loft
to watch me decipher what I thought Plato said.
They were dismayed that my image failed
to appear in the mirror on the wall
and sent out for a case of retsina and
a large order of souvlakia
as I labored with pen and pad
for an indeterminate number of days,
noting that all in the gathering had aged
but I who of course had expired
that night I fell
though a hole in midtown Cincinnati.
Silence yielded to despair
as I rifled through a paperback copy
of How to Read Classic Greek Overnight
and my dog-eared account of Plato’s dialogues
with Timaeus and Critias describing in detail
the Atlantean paradise lost to the world
for nearly twelve hundred years, and
I wondered how the world lost a continent twice
the size of Africa and Asia Minor combined,
until at last on the Ides of March
I dropped my pen,
lept from my chair and cried, Eureka,
I do believe I’ve got it.
Then with the scholars of the known universe
waiting in a state of euphoric anticipation,
I cried out again
just before I dematerialized,
What Plato told me at the banquet,
my voice now but a hollow whisper, was
Why not try the figs?
Share
Print
Save
Follow
I like your warped mind and twisted plot! Bravo!
Blessings, Love, and Appreciation - Micke
Wonderful!
Much peace, love, and light,
Amber "V"
A toast to the Shaggy Goat (story)! Marvelously conceived. It taps exactly into my sense of humor: not iron-clad, but languidly, flexibly unfolding a unique take on the ridiculous. It begs to be read aloud. Jack Nicholson, in his role of reader of childen's poetry, would be just the ticket. But even he would have to be on his best game to get this Ghost Story right!
I also like the contrast between this romp and the peaceful calm of your "To Be", especially the timeless torus of the last four lines.
All the best, Charlie
John
Newfie Hugs, Rose
enjoyed this great piece Gene...
John
Be always safe,
Karen
(((HUGS))) and love, Karla.
Cheers,
Dan