The Patmos Polka

There were too many mushrooms. 
John thought this as he strode around
the Island of Patmos, his long white beard
full of Adriatic Sea breeze, the green field an
ocean with mushroom ships extant like brown
icebergs in the vastness old John discerned.

This is my island, John conceded, I am in
exile and so I must get busy living!  John
sought sustenance, all right…food, vitals,
(manna held sway, but only for a little while),
and old John saw in his mind a campfire
charring pheasant, perhaps, maybe a rabbit,
or even trout if this crafty Apostle could devise
a hook, line and sinker (but who would swallow?)

Still, John weighed the option of all the mushrooms
and uttered, “Why not!” and became so excited that
one of his black sandals slipped off.  All these
mushrooms are plentitude, he thought, they are
a vast armada of fungus buffet, they are a
blessing of toadstool, they are a wondrous
reign of field fixings! 

Old John was happy to consume the given.
He thought he would be better because of it
and that, maybe, it would be a revelation.

Later…

Oh how his head spun, oh how the lights
flashed and the colors clashed and the day
turned to night and then back to day again.
He circled the universe without ever leaving
the ground.  And he danced…he danced
around the whole of Greek civilization, he
danced through the entirety of the Roman
Empire until, that is, he saw the Whore of
Babylon, and then he stood still.

John had tripped the lie fantastic.


35 Lines
Writer’s Cramp
8-9-16