Interview with Johnny Panic

Interview with Johnny Panic

“Every day from nine to five
I sit at my desk facing the
door of the office and type
other people’s dreams.”
—Sylvia Plath, Johnny Panic
and the Bible of Dreams

“Naughty, naughty,”—says Nurse Ratched
Her breath stinks—a love-stink worse
More foul than—an Undertaker’s Basement

Not just merely—Electro-shock today
The clinic director says—let’s go all the way
Time for a lobotomy—time to forget

Soon Sylvia—will forget her tongue
We can’t have anymore—of that poetry
Ariel has already—caused such a flap

The male doctors—give the order
Warm up the drill—time to slice & dice
The air crackles—with Ted’s revenge

Ted’s blue-tinged—poet laureate eyes
His Yorkshire—rabbit-killer instincts
His queer croaks—and grunts

I heard it thru—the grapevine
Pan doodling there—with his wordage
They did it to witches—you’re next

I clutch the board—squeeze the teacup
The last floating bits—of The Titanic
The Archives groan—like Daddy’s toe

Pan does a—quick double-step
Under the bookcase—a secret kept
What does he know—what does he know?

Rabbit holes—barren rat tunnels
All night elevators—the door grinds shut
Cattle cars stuffed—full of you know who

A chill air—touches the nape of my neck
I’m sitting cross-legged—on the floor
Sylvia’s Ouija board—got it on Ebay

“Ach du!”—the Board chides me
A little bit of Big Daddy—pointing to me
His shiny boots click—his little moustache

And then—Pan’s gentle voice
I disguise it so well—it’s been awhile
Out of circulation—pinstriped Palimpsest

Dream-books—are all downhill
Dead-of-winter nights—creaking doors
Both eyes shut tight—wide-open

Severed heads—in the closet
Extra-strong coffee—chocolate élairs
Systematically opening—the oldest book

Two hands—slip over mine
Guiding the planchette—over the page
Sylvia & me—together again

Such an—uncomfortable position
My legs are going asleep—séance time
Automatic writing—rushing errands

Her words whisper—so do mine
Snaking down—white-washed corridors
Basement passages—Emory Archives

Bare bulbs burning—in their sockets
Do works still speak—behind locked doors
First red Exit lights—and then none

We are entering—Alien territory
Sylvia and I one—I’m no longer just Pan
Ice ages pass overhead—it’s cozy down here

Archive walls—heavy-duty ceiling
Riveted metal—battleship plated walls
While plump Georgia peaches—rot above

Secret manuscripts—are down here
Jaundiced eyes—in the lavatory mirrors
Computers keep track—alarms are alert

The Ariel Archives—are unraveling
Thanks to us— the clairvoyant clique
All the cardinals of Rome—know the trick

A thousand Hail Marys—a chain reaction
Language flows—like a water faucet
Devoutly done with—censers & sacraments

Actually all it takes—is an Ouija board
Like dousing for gold—down in the depths
Sorry wrong number—a good-enough alibi

Remember one thing—Johnny Panic lies
He simply can’t help it—he’s so melodramatic
It’s the oldest—most obvious Play of words

Like Caliban—addressing the Audience
In Miss Auden’s version of—The Tempest
The Mirror and the Sea—Ariel’s double speaks

He’s sly, he’s subtle—he’s usually sullen
He injects a little bit of—occult poetic element
His business—you won’t find anywhere else