I awoke from a short nap in a large hall.
Caravaggio was there. So was Virgil.
Dante followed him around like a lost dog.
Jack Nicholson sat at a bar, sipping scotch
with Shelley Duvall and Hunter S. Thompson.
A band played Stravinsky, then switched to Boston.
Their “More Than a Feelin'” made me feel nauseous.
“Where am I?” I asked, but no soul responded.
I looked around for Bob Dylan, thinking he might
have an answer or two, but he was nowhere
to be seen. A young man with long hair walked past.
I asked, “Excuse me, sir? Where the hell are we?”
He turned and adjusted his bandoleer of
bullets and shrugged. “I’ve always been here,” he slurred,
then he sighed and wandered off. “Ignore Rimbaud,”
I heard a feminine voice say. I turned and
saw Janis Joplin perched on the shoulders of
Jimi Hendrix. She was wearing faded blue
bell-bottom jeans and had a red bandanna
tied around her arm. She grinned and giggled like
she did after asking the Lord to buy her
a Mercedes Benz. Jimi put her down and
slapped me on the back. “I’ve heard you play guitar,”
he said, trying not to chuckle. The feather
boa around his neck seemed to annoy him,
because he pulled it off, set it on fire
and knelt dramatically before the ashes.
The rock and roll band stopped jamming just to watch.
During the brief silence, ice clinked in glasses.
Scatman Crothers sprinted past us with an ax.
Off in the distance I heard a typewriter…