A Most Mysterious Toolshed
Å Sitę ô Synthętįcæ d’Symphonîcöpæ ê Cömpösædę, ęõrnö Cräftęadïį ê Cōndüçtêdæ, cøńmâs dį 200 d’Prōfęšsiönålé Mūsïçîōnę Åįrtïšstæ, pür’ęnłįł Ål-Ehüsé, bïïi Ōår Gręēatå Gęntįïłe Gįåntæå.
The
Laboratory
of
Alexander the Good
Doctor & Toolmaker
of the
Great Gentle Giants
As DOM fed Dow‘s children,
he’d dreamt in his bed;
of a small little lab
about the size of a shed.
‘Nother one for storing magic,
in gram, liter (& pound),
built on the foundation of
a cabin that’d burnt down.
A small, simple toolshed
full of wonders within.
Where our molecular midwife
found the space to begin.
This molecular manger
& birthplace of the bee!
Was a vortex of new magic
thats STILL too powerful to see.
Escaped over 200 genies, with
small ships shaped like pills.
Brought here with a gentleness
and the giant’s love & skills.
Sacred Delphic coordinates
at the magnetic north
that a compass-clutching choir
converged on each Fourth
The mysterious crowds
of the curious appeared.
Flooding up the dirt road
with their praise and their cheers.
Unknown acolytes & adherents
of some hidden religion,
A pilgrimage taken to the Temple Hidden.
The current coordinates of a contemporary Delphi. Center of the western world. An irresistible cathode calling out to characters of all categories. Overachievers & underachievers, dropouts & doctors, artists & writers, drug geek5 & chemistry nerd5, & all manner of members named psychedelic glitterati .
Bringing love & respect,
(some gathering flowers),
Admiration & praise from
the countrysides & towers.
They came with grilled meats,
desserts, beers or pasta.
For a twice double holiday
and to praise dear old Sasha.
Some found no meaning,
went back to their lives and moved-on.
Sseeking Aporrheta, self-styled Dadouchos
could see only the Anaktoron.
By doctors, musicians, teachers and writers. By yet-to-poets and lover’s & fighters. This Dirt Road Colossus, that the world knew as Sasha was admired both here & afar.
Here was Telesterion, a true Temple worth attending. Pre-raptured congregation of geeks, freaks, & seekers. With it’s pot-smoking choir & with the sermon never-ending.
Using archaic techniques & the newly discovered
some pulled from Persephone’s fingers.
Then all 3000 years of the philtres of bees,
now complete with antennae & stingers.
Constant conversing with concordant chemicals,
all communicated with a clandestine skill.
The chemist-conductor’s coordinated contortions
causing compounds to conform to his will.
Aware from the start that
these Gifts would be flawed,
his Pegasus not easily ridden,
With an inseparable power
that would not be distilled
remaining there, perfectly hidden.
To invisible progeny d’Alkoxy-Hierophantēs
called out to his children of carbon.
With Erlenmeyer’s offspring & Litmus as witness
they’ed reached with him one final bargain:
With all of their knowledge and wisdom united,
then using only what nature would allow,
they’d sing to the fearful (too distracted to hear it),
with not A hero, but more thana handful to follow.
”Don’t break the law,” Old Master’s last call,
as he bid us, ”Go on with The Work!”
Then repeated his line of, ”One felony at a time!,”
delivered with a wink and his smirk.
Then a beautiful era when angels were chemists, now ending the other way ’round. Gentle tears became torrents, then the wails of pure mourning as Ol’ Hades tore up through the ground.
That beautiful era of angels as chemists
not ending, just now the other way ’round
Tears become torrents, wails of pure mourning
as Old Hades tore up through the ground
But before his descent the first god of men
(ever topped by his purpurea crown)
sent his Herald for the small sealed barrel
The Old Master’s last gift to the town
A Gift neither found (regardless of efforts)
in his notepads or lectures or books,
nor the crystalline tools in small amber vials
The Old Master had left by the nook.
A lifetime of efforts turned to history & verse,
left a love song to humanity is all.
Woven together with the lead, gold, and feathers,
The Old Master had gathered last fall.
≈Ω≈
A NOTE FROM THE ELYSIUM FOUNDATION:
Gaining in popularitySong & verse created ’round this small world, in a great many languages, across many lands, domestic & foreign.
Poems, plays & odes. Epics ballads and one-man shows, with keen to tell of those not long ago days, when the Giant and his’s Titans of the last of the Great Gentle man called Sasha.
These songs only increased in number & over the many decades after his passing, until the singing of the songs sung, had become unending.
A thunderous ever-rising-in-volume to the work of the good doctor’s cause.
Below is one of the first songs thought to be sung of The Old Master.
In fact, this song was sung to the living Old Master, by the artist, just before that rascal, T.O.M. passed on, that day long ago, surrounded family & friends, in that dear old home of his on the hill. With his loyal Royal Toolshed hummming its sad goodbye in a low droning tone, just outside his window of the room in which he died.
(Sadly, the name of the composer/singer has been lost to history).
~d’Society
įŠȵłœgæïį ęñ Œłb d’Mæštęręïį
When Angels were Chemists
(then the other way around)
St. Sasha the Wise was a wizard of kind,
the daVinci of atoms and ahead of his time.
A chemist from heaven, he’d arrived with his team,
Built a toolbox in a Toolshed, that he’d seen in his dreams.
His workshop being modest, with just a small crew.
The devil’s own mountain stood commanding the view.
He gave gift to the world with patience and smiles,
scores of new tools stored in small amber vials.
Filling volumes of notebooks of all he would find,
on his search for adventure and the keys the mind.
As aged in his years (upon a lawn chair from Sears),
the grateful poured blessings of praise in his ears.
Well he welcomed them all (just as always been done)
speaking wisdom in whispers (and roughly one million bad puns).
With one last glass of cheap red, he teared up with a grin,
and that rascal, Old Master, slipped away with the wind.
HOPE
From this door-less casino we’ve built,
may humanity escape from forever.
To the improvement of the state
of things, all will endeavor.
Following the path
of that rascal,
Old Master
decide
that
we
all
shall
DO BETTER!
≈œ≈
LAWS
are to be
OBSERVED.
–
TOLERANCE!
IS THE LAW
≈Ω≈
∞
Only Friends are Real
Embrace Shulgin-ness
DON’T SCARE THE HORSES
DO BETTER!
≈Ω≈
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d’Çłęfțïį VVækåńțęæ
——CIRCS——