Greg Scaff 


At the gloomy after-party in Elysium,

Expectant quaggas party hard

With tarpan, dodos & aurochsen.

Charon buckles, penniless fleets

Unnumbered sail across the black river.

Gaia falls apart in shivers of ash,

Olympus lies dusty, unpolished, empty.

The Twelve have given up; defeated,

They brand it all just childish antics, like

Woodstock, or protesting My Lai.

Persephone has wandered off,

Miami? Irkutsk?

Who knows.

Tenaciously stoned in Detroit, Medusa

Spray-paints #MeToo in vengeful letters on

Church walls; she tucks her snakes in a Rastacap,

Hums Peter Tosh while busing tables, 'cuz

Bob Marley is for poseurs.

Zeus sleeps late & doggedly orders bogus

"Man boosting*" ED supplements from late

Night TV; he screams at Hera for another

Beer; she waitresses a diner, third shift,

& does a long haul trucker on the side.

Apollo & the Muses wear sackcloth-though

Erato, noble, nostalgic, cuts hers concise.

They shave their heads bloody, Bourbon St. cops

Call them The Heralds; they berate passers-by

In creepy acapella with angry Dada poetry;



Aphrodite pole-dances on Sunset Boulevard;

Hercules delivers pizza, cleans gutters

On the weekends.

The Great God Pan sports a turban, has become

A Sikh; he gathers aluminum cans

& drives a Yellow Cab.

Dionysus sleeps in dumpsters,

Bums for dimes in Times Square.

He says nothing, nothing's really changed,

As long as you have wine you have it all.

The nymphs & naiads are shell-shocked;

Ovulation's broken, they are bereft;

All magic's bled.

They cannot lactate summer's rain,

Cannot calibrate the winds, nor Ocean,

Everything is sand & wormwood.

They feed no puffins, no reindeer, no polar bears,

They file their nails while getting it doggy style,

"Oh yeah baby, oh God, oh God."

They get their checks off the dresser just like anyone.

We are engulfed in Last Rites & burning tires,

It is all high tides, moa bones & disinfectant.

Sunset weeps our soul like peppercorns,

Rudderless in carbon fields we take on water.