The World Disappears
Imagine that Timothy Leary had not left Harvard to go out on his own
That Wasson had not gone down to Mexico in search of las curanderas
That Huxley had not knocked on so many different doors of perception
That across the Wheel the Bohemes had not spent their time and casheesh
On flying magic carpets, exploring the dens of the origins of the Blakean
Imagination. Worlds in grains of sand. Following the bread crumbs
of the long now overgrown Royal Road to Romantic Eleusis,
“What’s in the bag—Tell me what’s in the bag!” The world disappears.
Imagine that the Hippies had not gone East on the Eden Express
That there was no forerunner Kerouac, that he had not left
the lumber mill, that he had not gone on the road, that he had
not read Spengler, that he had not been a vagabond supertramp
hobo homeless literateur raconteur biku Bohemian layabout.
The world disappears.
Imagine that the founding fatheren had not had the cojones to
commit a splash of treason. That Spinoza had not taken breaks
From grinding lenses. That Ponce De Leon had not had a longing
For Eternal life, denying death. That Columbus had not sailed
Three days longer. That Columbus had not had a secret map
Of the round world. That Petrarch had not loved translation
That Mehmed II had not had a fondness for Constantinople
That Constantine had not had a fondness for Byzantium
That Jesus had not been a man of sorrow and passion
That Caesar had not been a man of virtue and glory
That Alexander had not had Aristotle for a teacher
That Homer had not done something more practical
than poetry. That the Greeks had not loved beauty so much
That Aphrodite had not bothered to be born
That Hercules had not bothered with his labors
That men had never looked up toward the night sky.
Had never named the constellations. The world disappears.
