In this indecent hour of my mad descent,
I descend to victories in the soul of time,
To descend to the sorrows of centuries,
To the yesterdays of my despair,
I give lament to all that is yet wise,
And still as grass under cold night stars,
And fog!, I wait...

...for the mad clocks of time,
to stop in their turnings,
for the calendars to croak,
in their groves of dates...
...and for mad dogs to lie down in the hot sun.

I would a mad monk of Persia be,
rather than a sidewalk buffoon always
watching the cracks in the sky'
I would wander four thousand acres of
cement, to find one husk of acorn;

...If Modernity does not serve,
what temporarily makes Modernity
possible, then Modernity must fall
to the greater wisdom of ants and snails;
better, then, that Man-child and Woman-child
push Modernity over now, rather than perish
in the great push of nature, universe,
And the relentless Mind of God gone Sacred-Mad
at both the best and worst follies of Humankind!

What heresy is this that knows no bounds?
Knows not else but the puking in the soul?
Knows not else but the sweet joys of a
Cat's Cradle going fastly to hell and snarls!

What hearsay knows its own heresy?
What hairest horse would know the hearse?
What hairs would harass the hares,
Would also pound a brawny fellow to his grave.

Let it be Writ, then, on the Memorial Obelisk
of the Dead Darth...
Let the last gnarled fingers grasp
the last chisel,
Let the last elbow prong to strike the
hammer blows on forever rock of no ages:

                      "What harassed the hares,
Also haired the hearse,
       And the hairiest horsy heresy was
But hearsay...and that is how perished,
and in the end was the Word, as it
was in the Beginning.  It made little sense
in the Beginning....
It makes less of it now,
And the Void is!"

- Michael W. Eliseuson