Classic Poem

The knot Freud called the navel of the dream
A thing of turpentine or bronze can be,
A question of identity, this: that.

Tightly the birthday granny knot is tied.
Annealed and sealed, it heals — wee amphitheatre
With all the seats removed and all doors closed;
Marking the home of Nowhere's Nightmare-Nonsense,
It memorizes the inane unknown.

A locus-focus for the clockless epic.

O mindless mildness of some tiresome tire.

The particles of everlasting light
Fall helter-skelter through the universe,
Light's only speed the speed of light alone.

The dance of data discontinuous
Without the fancy's fancy shadow-show.

Around around around, around a round round.
Clean and canonical, you smell so good.

Umbilical, alike, vehicular.

You have your little valve: pounds per square inch.

King Gordius of Phrygia left one thing
Of hide or thought or kerosene or string.
A charmed thing, a charged thing, and a charred thing,
Reduced to dust by Alexander's edge.

A sword's interpretation of a priestly problem.