The Dithyramb of a Weeping Apollo

1

As his gaze set cast,

Upon haze long past,

Ways far and wide open.

Fast, like a maze gone rash.

2

Form in appearance and dream,

Held now in lowest esteem.

For rapture claims the whole of Being,

Even as we daydream.

3

A withered arrow,

From a diseased crown.

An ugly Pharoh,

As Jesus’ Clown.

4

Lo! One struck a city.

Low! Is one’s stuckness in pity.

Is there even a difference here?

How queer!

5

Apollo’s confession,

Not in Heaven,

For Dionysian Dithyrambs,

Go Beyond Eleven,

Into Seven!

As where form dissipates,

All “knowledge” capitulates.

6

Apollo’s vengeance,

Is in heaven,

For his arrow wreaks itself.

In confession, a leavening.

7

A question,

“Why need an image be more?”

Reality leaves us with little more,

Then another question:

“Whose image?”

8

As if that were permissible.

Apollo’s ‘light’ shineth pitiful,

Upon the only plains in sight,

Dionysus, in all his might!

9

A drink or four,

A little wink, to and fro — a little whore.

Who are you calling a…?

Right out the bar door!

10

Self-discipline as the form,

Of the forlorn.

11

As Apollo awoke from his weeping state,

He spared not a breath —did not hesitate.

As the Will of Chryses, Apollo Willed Himself,

A form anew, plague-ridden — a hidden wealth.

For Apollo’s charity and austerity,

His regularity and familiarity,

Is eternally bound to all posterity.

An arrow mended in the interim.

A whirl once more, again — ad infinitum!