Poem: Johnny Smith

During a tantric workshop for gay men
I fell, drum-ravished, into a deep trance
And wandered blinking in a wounded meadow
Until my path came to a ragged hole
Where steps descended into humid darkness.
Nauseous with dread I trod those thousand steps,
Then slipped and plunged into a profound chasm,
One whole lunation plummeting like Satan
Cast from spheres beatific, till at last
I splashed into a subterranean sea
And crawled ashore, sun shining without mercy.
Three days I wandered, chewing bitter herbs,
Then met a mountain which with bleeding feet
I scaled, to a peak veiled in roiling vapours
On which a vast translucent palace floated,
Cool as a crystal cave. The heart astonished,
The senses overwhelmed, I penetrated
Seven sequential portals, then emerging
Into a dappled courtyard less resplendent,
A fountained square for mellow contemplation
Where sat a dark-skinned prince immersed in study,
A mild immortal, who, my presence noting,
Had me sit down and said, This book was written
A hundred thousand years before the flood
By one who journeyed homelessly, his mind
Annealed by grief to diamond concentration.
Here, read. I took the book, and read as follows:
I miss you, Johnny Smith,
Your scorpion eyes and silver crucifix
No other man can make me laugh like you.
I want to pick up the phone
But what is there left to say?
So I guess I’ll just go from town to town
Playing my blue guitar for a bowl of rice,
Dressing my grief in other people's drag,
Getting older and fretting about my looks.