Falstaff and Me
The Unsown Field: Cantos 3–4
October 16, 2019

A nebula of essence, ghostly light,
unseen, but felt — A flame, the catalyst,
ignites the vapor, still unseen but bright,

deep in the core of this anhylic myst.
In miller’s press, from coarser matter’s mess,
to finer stuff no matter what the grist:

Like cosmic dust that into stars compress,
sophisticated consciousness is born.
A born-again intelligence to bless.

Invis’ble fluxes stretched till fabric torn,
and wordless whispers shapeless shadows find.
The boy recalled he’d been a boy forlorn.

And all at once he saw the way behind,
and all at once he saw the way back home…
but just as soon it vanished from his mind.

Up and down throughout that primal dome
he drifted, and what random things he’d seen!
like fortune teller, reading from a tome:

“Beware the dwaledight! Fear the lady green!
Beware the wooded maze to dwaledight’s lair!
Beware the bower of the Lurrel Queen!”

Her name at first aroused him, but “beware”
did spoil the odd excitement that it stirred.
He sensed a sinking feeling of despair.

Quoth fortune teller: “Geoffrey, heed my word:
Friends flatter not, ‘less flatt’ry be your friend.”
“That fortune cookie I already heard!”

“A fortune teller!” “Sorry, though you tend,
it seems, to hokey, home-spun plattitudes.
But sorry. Please, to me a fortune send.”

Quoth fortune teller: “How he changes moods.
What cotton candy does to one so young!
One moment he’s elated, now he broods.”

Quoth minder: “This one’s number has been sung.
Just throw him out and let him sleep it off.’
And so into the woods was Geoffrey flung

(humanely so, for it was near their trough).

Geoffrey awoke just past the break of dawn.
How weak, yet strangely fresh he felt, while laying,
as if a floating raft he lay upon.

Although not hurting, still his head was swaying.
If, once, you woke before you sobered up,
you’d understand the feeling I’m relaying.

“Aweigh the anchors, on to captain’s cup…”
“Who’s singing that?” quoth Geoffrey where he lay.
“‘Tis I, right next to you, I sing and sup

on photosynthesis — you know it’s May.”
“Is that a normal thing? I can’t recall.
My brain is lost in, well, non-thought today.”

“Of course it’s normal! Ain’t you been to class?
Most every green plant does it: don’t you judge.
You ain’t the only kind of biomass.”

From where he lay our hero dare not budge.
But looking left, he saw just trees and shrubs.
And then it dawned on him: “Oh holy fudge!”

“I don’t eat fudge,” the fern replied, ”nor grubs,
nor ants, nor leaves. The soil, the rain, the sun,
yes, most of all the sun. No clubs, no pubs,

for liquor can’t compete with r—” “—Oh, I’m done!
I’m through! I’ve seen it all! I lost my mind!”
“Hey whippersnapper! I was talking, son!

Ain’t that the way! To elders you’re so blind.
That’s just the problem with this wicked world.
You kids don’t listen, never do, I find.”

Now, even though a fern, you’d swear his brow was furled.
Quoth Geoffrey: “Fern, what wisdom! I can tell.
For list’ning not, I to this spot was hurled.

Indeed, O fern, you seem to know me well.
This seems familiar, from a storybook…(!)
Are you my conscience!?!?” “Not a chance in hell!”

“I’ll earn you, conscience-plant, by hook or crook!
At last I have direction! Who’d of thunk?“
But while he tried to rise, there in that brook:

“Oh boy. Am I still in my woozy funk?”
His balance failed. His legs began to twitch.
He fell and hit his head upon a trunk.

Once more his view became as dark as pitch.
Again into unconsciousness he sank,
swift as a concrete-wearing gangster snitch.

Geoffrey of welcome slumber gladly drank,
although to sleep again, there, risks the grave,
as sick as Geoffrey was, to be quite frank.

While sleeping loud — this stupid, snoring knave —
a childhood song from once upon a time
he heard now, dreaming. Thought he: “How I crave…

…I don’t know what, but please don’t stop that rhyme.”