No more porcelain gods, or the prejudice for the painted gods, or the gods of plastic and oil; no gods at all, no temples or palaces filled, no golden crowned people or dirty labors unequal, because we are afraid, and the products and services have only lead to divisions, and the system’s corrupt and building us more gods out of the strings of puppet gods, and the people themselves have never felt more unequal.
The night comes, whispering at the eaves, as if to say, 10,000 years have gone and we are still afraid, still huddling one in the shape of a spoon beneath blanket or fur, cuddled up under the stars, the cave, the roof, the truth that we are still naked on Earth.
Now that the summer’s gone and the Station Wagon is rusted into the American lexicon, and the family is fully adjusted– two kids, two jobs, and not enough– we needn’t dream of vacations, or waste our mileage on the stuff that our parents had given up, and there is nothing missing, my son: not dollars, nor minutes, nor love, but the old will to simply stand-up.
I wished that love
was not far-flung
as foreign coasts
and little sailing boats.
I wished for love
in crimson waves,
and wandered on
lonely as the dawn.
I wished for it
and learned to fish,
and in fishing
learned to love.
Everyday was exactly the same, and the night did nothing, and staying weighed me like an elephant that couldn’t slip by the open pantry just to take the goodies that made him happy, so like a field mouse I stole the things needed to keep me sane while I waited, and then one day everything changed.
There is a gypsy in her hair; a place where I slip off to breathe, a paradise of spring and newborn things, a playground made of laughter’s glee.
It’s there, among the pair of us, that fields of white daisies rise up, and I know that I shall never have want for a thing that I could not buy– and a thing that most do not find.
There is a gypsy in her hair and a fairy beating her wings against the excited thudding of heart, beating out it’s inner anxiety, but how could I not wander forever among the talk of her and me, among the paradise of us, among the playground of life in love?
Do not fall for a man like me I am not blind; I do not see. I am the reason storms have names for I will hit where Cupid aims, and I will love with all my heart, give to you my most secret part, but being so I’ll change you more than storm on sandy beach or shore, and I will love your changing coast as sailor does his loving host.
Perhaps, when I am old and mad, I will double over the boat and find myself lips deep afloat within the spray and troublesome foam, and then this man you shall know. I will not leave because of wind; a sailor seeks his like of kind and triumphs within the storm, and though he cannot see the form which makes up the most painful waves, he stays because he loves that which he braves.
No candle can stay the cohorts of human dogmas new or old, not reason weighed nor goodness shown would make plain such her hopes; Hypatia now flayed with oyster shells and reason ripped as flesh and skin from those who would see us as more. Poor Hypatia, her virgin soul, now stripped to jagged pieces pulled limb from torso, again, again limb from torso and head from whole, until at last they burnt and mocked her toil and stamped the embers that smoldered, left over from the burning library where we humans lost so much more.
Some say that time consumes all, but Phidias’s statue’s beauty did not disappear with a thousand falls; it’s we who took the marble and chipped until the statue fell; it’s we who filled empty pockets and wept when it was gone; it’s we who cannot remember a beauty without destroying what we love.
The world is not enough for us of late; the rough cold fate of living life to die exchanged for the spending and getting of time, the warmth of a fire and a hot plate rather than the uncertainty of night, and so we’ve laid waste our sacred birth right.
We are no longer nature or subject to her, but in that most final moment that one must face when money fails to buy; two coins over the eyes and yet we cry because it is life that we cannot bribe. We have given away our hearts as coins, and all the up gathering of missing and stolen memories whisked to tempest doesn’t move men’s hearts or make safe the passage.
How do you straighten out the human heart and tell the head that it is truly mad, mixed up and made for something closer to art than mathematics and newspaper ads, and meaningless motions made fast as ‘bots working robotic shifts at factories?
How do you tell with mind what ties in knots that all it needs is love and arteries beating as pulsars between the silk sheets, beating as lovers, big spoons, and little spoons?
Let me tell you ’bout Tom, the musical dragon, the muse of angels and the fire of hell a rapper who’s not here to sell you xanex, music that doesn’t conflict with the truth. Keep calm, stand tall the gloves have come off and roof is on fire and we’re all still alive, just barely breathin’. Didn’t know what we needed was a musical dragon, didn’t know it was me he’d be saving didn’t know there was anything that still meant somethin’, and so I explode with the rage of a demon. How dare you short this guy, when it’s you that he’d be savin’. Keep calm, stand tall, the glove have come off. y’all.
Beneath the waves a gyre turns it’s gaze. Awake, at last, that sleeping giant is loosed once more upon the world. Anarchy is the rule that sets the center askew; the antichrist is surely near. The shooter, his rifle, is surely at hand; surely there’s some terrorist plan, surely the boogeyman has come to bear those Freddy claws and leave us turning still amidst out night of timid sleep and fevered chill.