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The Mad Cow Dream

—Waiting for the 1950 Sea Beach Express to bear me back through the decades, I paced the elevated station, scanning each paint-peeled fire-escape, each box of light in the shabby brick walk-ups of the Brooklyn I recalled.

—How dare the place desert me (though I'd not gone there for years); the tracks desert me as well, the obsolete name of that train?  I was ready, yes, ready to flee that place once again when I slid from the platform's edge down a shaft into the well-preserved ruins of a round & rose-colored city built entirely from stone, its streets hushed, on its carved stoops a few men & women who bent their heads over newspapers, neither greeting me nor shooing me away. 

—Not a duplicate, not a reversal,  ghost, nor indeed a surprise: I"d long suspected that city's presence below the cracked pavement, kept building it even when I strayed far from where I'd played chalk-scrawled street games; sometimes caught glimpses behind the gates of dreams, noting its resemblance to ancient cities I"d seen on the other side of the world. 

—So despite my elaborate blueprints, I knew: my secret city was far from unique. 

—Yet I stubbornly clung to that mythical chance, fearing the risk of a visit, of confessing that few out of all who've lived on this planet could claim mindscapes that were unique—& none that were supreme.  

—And soon the old and new stories took their places along the rose-colored stone streets:   

    Circe's power to enchant, the Medusa"s flair
    for petrifying glances in the same space of mind
    as the power of those particles called pions
    to decay into muons, transform themselves
    to neutrinos, allegedly ubiquitous
    though not one has yet been seen.  
    Shiva's cosmic dance/ the spin of particles
    Flying horses, a one-eyed giant/ brown dwarfs  
    & white dwarfs, balls of solidified fire.
    Ariadne's guiding thread/ superstrings
    The voracious appetites of minotaurs & sphinxes/ black holes.
    Labyrinths/ invisible tunnels.        
    Oracles/ tachyons, virtual particles, DNA.

—And the pageant kept moving like time itself towards a new blend of the legendary old, legendary new. 

—I confess that when my rose-colored streets swarmed with too many stories at once, I looked for gaps so perhaps I could catch one of those old Brooklyn streets, but quickly returned to the cene below so I could watch Hermes of the winged sandals fly off in his usual way after brief pause at the wormhole display, its promise of instant message relay throughout spacetime; watch Teiresias cock his ear: not only for birdsong but the faint refrains of cosmic ripples. 

—If I wait long enough surely that old Coney Island boardwalk would return, its carnival of myths, what I saw through enchanted eyes co-exist with the latest antics on a telescope's lens? 

—Better yet a brand new mock-parachute, its umbrellas the silk of the spheres, that soared through the lid of the sky before a new cluster of stars shot like fireworks the naked eye could watch burn clear through the old streets' cement:  Bracelets of gems for the towers  the domed roofs of my rose-colored city.