Pic Poetry: the prophetic brow of Isis

[Thunderembargo]

He sat in the sweat sordid and sapped, 
the sultry evening sweat, scintillating 
echoes of a writer's work

with the lone wolves howling sunset 
and with souls going up to the cactus..........
or over to the watering hole
 
"I didn't ask to go to Mexico," he said with mesmerizing certitude,
and sipped gladly, dusting his hat with an air of grace and Folly
 
He had cut from himself.........the tequila
and, of himself: the silver pesos, the raw oysters, the telescope Eyes
and cartographic hand, long studied,
to draw
constellations triumphant and bold
 
Jupiter rising hope, nonchalantly, expectantly..........
An exchange not retrograde, but foretold
the prophetic brow of Isis long predicted
and retrograde with her feline purring cyclically
radiating dreams of prophecy and philosophy
 
Cyphering these night-dreams prosaically
he took his Steinbeck flat, like Kerouac prose symphony
with Sophocles at Alexandria
and the beat bulls running the Roses
 
Perhaps Hemingway praising More knighted for his folly
would carry the weight of the hopeless bulls
and draw him from his revery

[nibbed]

Hi, thunderembargo. I don't know why, exactly, or I am at a loss of words to explain it,
but the title of your poem had me giggling out loud.


He sat in the sweat sordid and sapped, 
the sultry evening sweat, scintillating                                   -why sweat twice, are there other words that would work, too?
echoes of a writer's work

with the lone wolves howling sunset                                    -I like this line very much, I can see shades of desert colour
and with souls going up to the cactus..........                         -the infinity of ellipsis
or over to the watering hole
 
"I didn't ask to go to Mexico," he said with mesmerizing certitude,
and sipped gladly, dusting his hat with an air of grace and Folly
 
He had cut from himself.........the tequila
and, of himself: the silver pesos, the raw oysters, the telescope Eyes
and cartographic hand, long studied,
to draw
constellations triumphant and bold
 
Jupiter rising hope, nonchalantly, expectantly..........
An exchange not retrograde, but foretold
the prophetic brow of Isis long predicted      perhaps choose prophecy or predicted here, not both

and retrograde with her feline purring cyclically
radiating dreams of prophecy and philosophy
 
Cyphering these night-dreams prosaically
he took his Steinbeck flat, like Kerouac prose symphony
with Sophocles at Alexandria
and the beat bulls running the Roses
 
Perhaps Hemingway praising More knighted for his folly    
would carry the weight of the hopeless bulls
and draw him from his revery


I see the start of a good poem. You have many thoughts to work with here.
It seems to be revealing something overlooked by another. Thank you the read
and opportunity to critique.