All of us
are hell-bound
in a Yogi’s picnic basket.
Forget my alteration
of this tired
allegory—having nothing
at all to do with Jelly-
stone. There’s little in our
lunch to tempt a bear.
It ain’t over till it’s
over. So let’s
kick back all the brandy
that we can.
With one-hundred-
twenty Xanax. Shaped like
blocks of Pez. The maxxing
of its strength,
that vows to keep us
calm until the end.
We’ll never be afraid
our final moments. Twisting
to the Beatles
before their days with
Maharishi. Shouting
from the geysers
Paul is dead!
Knowing that it’s
moments till we join him,
say he was
indeed the lucky one,
have a look-alike
take his place, a mop-top
while he crashed
to a violent
sleep.
We will balk
at all the gurus,
say their pitches
missed the plate.
We’ll explore
our sense of stroking ,
inhale as much mesquite
as we are able, click our
lips together like pochette;
launch your little hand-
bag to the blue of
empyrean—dependable,
ever-trusty like Old
Faithful,
which they say will
be the spark
to kill us all, the clouds
from molten rock, blinking
out the sun
that’s here and gone,
our ash
to tag along , from the fall
of our Du Mauriers’
dénouement,
like the remnant
of the dust
from which we sprang ,
His breath into our
noses,
so we could bask
in the teasing scent
of fruit’s forbode;
its taste beyond our
touch, existing
so we’ll sin
for next to nothing ,
locked from some
supposed paradise,
that was never
really heaven
to begin with.
Andreas Gripp
March 14, 2025
RF Image. Movie still from Vivre Sa Vie (1962)
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