The Thing

This is a poem about "The Thing,"

the thing which hides in great stories and poems
till they're put under a microscope,

and then it flies away on devil wings
and flies as a bat through the full moon,
and lands on a painting
as a sunflower or water-lily

Sometimes at night, deep in the woods
it howls with wolves or coyotes
or sings with Jimmy Hendrix or Ian Anderson
or that hippie-bard by The Black Swan Theatre
who keeps apart and strums his gnarled guitar

So I put a five in his black-top hat
and he gave me a quick and furtive look,
which offered in the clearest latin
to, right then and there,
teach me secrets of THE THING

But I had classes to attend,
money to make,
drugs to take,
and beautiful girls to fuck:

and now then a nude hippie nymph,
or a Buddhist monk
or a marijuana bowl
or an elephant
or a magic mushroom
would teach me a thing or two
about THE THING

but the thing about THE THING
is that it's as free as smoke,
owned by no form, place, or person

and like a huge emerald or diamond,
danger often lurks about it:
it turns men to pathetic drunks or junkies
or powerful E.S.P. monsters
(wise sages or evil Rasputins)
all according to their virtues or sins,
and whatever other law The Thing knows

Actually, I don't know much about THE THING,
and may have said too much already:
I'm not sure