Anton LeVay, Seen at the Coffee Bean, in His Dotage

The Satanist wore a flowered shirt
like a cowboy's; and had a Sioux Indian
quirt, with which he drove seven midnight
stallions through the hidden dimensions
stacked like glass panes, in the shop.

Windows, without shades, without frames, incapable
of opening to night breezes, and clearing out
the heated greenhouse gases built up
from every day's blistering sun. And I,
for one, had come to prefer the middle
of the evening, hot as it also was.

When I wasn't watching, that dark priest
slipped away - glided, into one of those other
planes, I suppose; his bald head and goatee
and florid shirt hidden from me as he
flattened out into two dimensions.

One fewer than we know, or feel;
where the tension slips away, only because
the world becomes a little less real. Where
there are no knots - Gordian, or not.
For, to make superstrings into tangled things
requires one thread, at least, to pass
over another. And loop back.

Perhaps he'll be back - just when I lack
the werewithal to explain all
the complexities that bedevil me.
Those even higher dimensions we can't see;
but still will be - here - long after
we're gone.

I'll buy him some coffee. Maybe some tea.
I'll buy him ... something. But I won't buy
his two-bit disappearing act: the pseudo-
miracle, performed by reducing his world
to the transparent, and fragile. Unless,
of course, perhaps I even sooner shatter
the glass of his mysteries.
By accident. Without meaning.