Translated from “The Irish” and dedicated to F.X. Toole and Clint Eastwood.
Turning the corner near the gyros place
To the Falcon- heading to the Falcon
Plans fall apart on Center street
Amid the anarchy of parallel parking
The salty slush puddles are everywhere
The ceremony of intoxication is drowning
The best have consideration for the worst
Are pennilessly in need.
Surely some refreshment is at hand;
Surely Another Round is at hand.
Another round! I only just begged
When a large tumbler of Spirits (Brandy)
Troubles my throat: burning like sand in a desert
I need something full bodied with a head of foam,
A Guinness black and Harp gold as the sun,
A nice slow pour, meanwhile all about me
Reel shadows of the indignant drunken birds.
The drinking starts again; but now I know
That twenty-somethings of Saturday
were veering toward nights of rock ‘n’ roll
and what a rough pecker, the days of the week had been,
Lurching towards bedtime, but to sleep?
—Keith Gaustad, Milwaukee, WI
The Second Coming
by WB Yeats
Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?