2015 07 27
I grasp silver wheel, press gas pedal down,
causing four-piston engine to spin,
and steer my car on winding road of hope
that curves over hills past your dreaming homes.
Strangers without bodies, faces, or names
live in every straight-numbered house I pass,
and every door is locked against despair,
and every lawn is well-ordered and clean,
and in every living room on plush couch
sit mute angels disguised as mannequins
who watch world history on a million screens.
I drive past countless businesses and homes,
each one a stage for unrecorded tales,
television dramas no one can watch,
actors who wear their real faces as masks.
Storms crackle and rain pours on angled roofs,
and world we knew is drowned in floods of fear,
recorded in movies before we die,
and we live reborn in world we create.
I tear a thousand masks off my real face
in vain quest to discover and reveal
my true soul, while living lives of dead people,
till I resurrect myself from their graves.
We are clusters of atoms that clink rings
of carbon that spiral into gene coils
who swim river of love to lake of dreams
and wake aware on shore of singing stars.
We tell new stories of our lives through code
of our names that record our quests for truth,
and we map our journeys in river mud
where apple tree sprouts and blossoms ripe fruit.
Life is so messy and confusing, we
attempt to contain within strict bounds
of elegant account, enclosed in walls
of paradise we erect from stacked words,
mystery of hunger and love to control
extravagant passion of magic spells.
I drink hot chocolate by window of faith
and watch mist rise from lake of putrid life,
dreaming how we weave labyrinth of lust,
and remember in visions of desire
how my ancestors survived death to mate.
Now that we know well there is no God
we can proceed with the business of life,
the divine passion of becoming God.