Mr. Pynchon

Hey Mr. Pynchon where are you?

Norman banged on your door but

you galloped out the back balcony

towards the dangerous caliginous night,

shrouding your alpine figure, fading

once again into the pages of anonymity.

Your token paranoia is much needed

within the confines of political debauchery.

The swift sword that is your odd prose

needs to cut through the malice of corruption.

To once again be the mad maestro of ink

filled metaphors circling the grounds of

the existential big tent, a carnival of catharsis.

For the sad times we live in is in much need

of a healthy dose of unrealistic reality that is

etched within the syrupy syllables that secrete

through your hands onto the pulp of destiny.

What wisdom could you share with us of the

lesser talents? What puzzles can you provide

for us to decipher and become better for it?

Your reclusion is epic.  Stories will be told about

the stories that are told about your absence

from the world you are able to hold hostage with

a single sentence.  Many have prospected for

your whereabouts in vain attempts to quench

their undeserving curiosities. But like the myths

of legend you evade scrutiny only to ever expand

upon your personal invention. To become a storm

in the dark hours of night. Fulminating and ferocious

and yet intangible to the naked eye scouring the

empty landscape for signs of their tormenter.

You have been called a trickster, a conspiracy

theorist, a jester, a genius and a divine inspiration.

A man among children spinning tales so convoluted

they must come from the mind of a maniac and

marauder of mischief.  You were once Ted Kaczynski

and a few caught you as J.D. Salinger. But the only

explosions you delivered were from your pen. And

you were never beholden to any Caulfield. No,

they are not you nor are you yourself anymore.

At 73 you are now what the people who write

about you make you to be.  You are a fable of

literature. To be told to the young upstarts

and be lavished with praise among peers alike.

So where are you Mr. Pynchon?

I guess we’ll never know nor do I want to.

I will be satisfied to leave you in the Gravity

within a Rainbow. Or hidden in the corner

of the Crying Lot just down the road of Vineland.

I’ll find you within the minds of Mason & Dixon

while cherishing the late nights within pages

after I have fought a battle Against the Day.

These are the places where you dwell and

I am happy to meet you there on my own time.

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