October 22, 2014

I've fallen and I can't get up...

The Agony in the Garden, by William Blake c. 1799-1800

I was caught pawning agony for ecstasy

part 1 (setting the tone)

beach-combing debris fields for any sign 
of fuck you being my name

churches in America are 
still wish-death-ing liberties and keys 
despite the separate identities 
the same body assumes 
when mood and Moon are 
fancied algorithmic tools
engaging the blinders

the conservatives on tv are constrict-a-tives
the liberals are banker strung Pollyanna(s)

we are all temporary
seasonally curled scattered leaves
lawn carcasses for sale in a park
we are available to fill with an empty sort of nostalgia…

yes this was once a pioneering land
where demanding greed be the creed 
we bleed from whatever it is we feed 
with the lies we’re indoctrinated as children
to believe in

a leaf is a seeded reach that once in awhile shimmers 
a fall from grace perched then lurched back to earth…
a swan tide of maple oak ash chestnut and elm...

I color my world to cut roots with fire and sex...

when ignorance is bliss I can steal whatever I want from you

part 2 (cutting into bone)

bloody tires and thrown open sashes 
I watch who dashes away from the wrecks 
I’ve created by rigging the stoplight
I tell you everything but what you need to know
because knowledge is towed away
the theft is always going to be borrowed 
and never gained

informing any of you
is but a glam circus come on a thon
listening to me is a mistake
you will wake the next morning 
in someone else's clothes

your voice will have 
an entirely different taste 
of expressing the exhales

you will be play acting and stretching 
the audible parts of your soul
you will parse and piece the hard creases 
meant for easy packaging
you will distribute, attribute wisdom 
to painful experiences…
you will ask why…
you will come to find it is because 
you think beauty lurks beneath 
the surfactant scars…

we are teeming cellular metropolises 
breeding devoured excesses
we are a dress code honor guard 
a flora bacteria culture

we are the petri dishes
on every block by block
our souls in hock
do you lock everyone out
as I do to find what crumbles
outside the light of love
what do you look for in the dark

I look for
what I might have been
what I am now
what once was
part eager
part mechanical
part organ dependent
part of something
greater than anything
imagination might have
remembered was important
enough to never need words