In medias res I came to a path marked X,
whereat I found the spot I'd left my purse of gold;
not gold, really, but dreams that I used to unfold
like old night clothes ready for the long ride ahead
through the treacherous mindscapes of Bob Dylan songs
that no longer salved but would not leave me alone.
A black mad dog foaming at the mouf wif a bone
from within a fence went round made of smoked-out bongs.
.
A howling wind cried in every direction
'on the contrary' and 'nothing is ever true'
and I answered back, Old Scratch, the joke is on you --
it's all true, all the time, all one introjection.
.
You need to let the golden dreams and Bardo go
back to the fluxing river from whence it doth flow.
