I pulled a crumpled bill out of my felt jacket pocket and put it in his hand,
And smiling, said “Zeus bless you.”
The man smiled back, a three-toothed grin,
And his eyes lit up like dark stars and he chuckled.
His laugh was thin and dry.
He thought I was joking.

I wasn’t.

Zeus the Preserver, Zeus of Strangers, protect that man.
He is a stranger, a no-named nobody begging under the bridge,
While the shuffling, inhospitable crowd presses past him.
They ignore him, but you do not.
Merciful Zeus, keep him safe, and let me remember him.

I struggle to keep up.

Suddenly, the acrid fanfare of the guitar cries
Like the peal of a naked, horny church bell,
And a passionate but unintelligible baritone
First barks and then slithers like a black snake
Insidiously into the spinning gears of the polyphonic clockwork.
The delicious, Dionysian danger of the music and the
Perfect pain of running are wrapped up
Into one overwhelming singularity:
It is the universe’s gift to me, and I throw myself into it.

General Burnside is my hero,
He’s greater than Caesar, Khan, or Nero,
For his cheeks were always far from bare-
He was the king of facial hair!
Razors would tremble and shriek with fear
Whenever Burnside’s face was near.
He led the North against the South
With mighty whiskers atop his mouth.
Courtly and suave, a dapper fellow,
You’d never catch him in red or yellow
But ever in Blue! The Union’s hue!
Whenever he’d eat his bowl of stew
He’d strain the broth through his moustache
And bellow “General Lee is trash!”

Stand aside Elvis, Away, Neil Young!
Your time is over! Your song is sung!
Your burns and mutton chops are weak,
But Burnside’s beard was never meek!
History simply cannot erase
The hair from General Burnside’s face.

Your skin is soft,
And smooth to touch-
You look at me
And breathe, and smile
At me,
And I’m dizzy.

Your hair cascades
Down your perfect white back
You close your eyes
And breathe, and smile
At me,
And I forget
That there ever was a time
When I was not yours.