2015 08 20
The telephone of my heart rings and rings
and laughing woman without sorrow sings
because my father wanders in dark woods
and talks with honest invisible ghosts,
though tower of stone his father built
crumbles under fierce hurricane of guilt.
I reach my hand to grasp the glowing stone
where spirits dwell who show future events
so when I walk the street from door to door
I sell salvation to the hopeful fools
who give me all their money for a chance
to live in paradise behind locked gates.
I solve the puzzle of your paradigm
that moment when you try to hide your keys
so I open every door that you fear
which leads to the garden of holy lime
where we learn how to talk with honey bees
although you must keep your fateful star near.
From the car window I watch tall trees dance,
then swim in the muddy lake of your heart,
floating on my back under empty sky,
and wonder if I will ever return
to the cozy home I built with bare hands,
after they drove us all away with guns.
We find a free vale on the tattered map
our jester stole from the mad sleeping king,
so we build new homes on the river shore
and carve faces of demons on oak trees
we wear as masks to the stone church at dawn
where Amen teaches us how to sing hymns.
I hide my spirit in the Book of Lies
then stand by the lake where the raven cries,
plant herbal seeds in the cold squishy mud,
talk with the milk cow while she chews her cud,
and plot how to build vast empire of power
where calculating robots sing to flowers.
The empire that we know will fall apart
at turning of stars every eighty years,
so we construct from glamorous fantasy
new empire where I will reign as your god
and you will donate enough willing tithe
so I can buy a mansion in the sky.
I need a new helicopter to fly
like Jehovah over cities of men
so I can judge their actions good or bad
and they will bow down to worship my face
and repeat doctrines I declare are true
or they will forfeit all they own to me.
The telephone of my heart fails to ring
but angel of death refuses to sing,
so I will stand on flat-top pyramid
and watch over market where greedy men
buy and sell our souls for round disks of gold,
and we sing while we slave in fields of wealth.
I will snatch book of your life with sly stealth
and explain how your memories got sold
and your mind was sealed inside the clear gem
that glitters on the flat-top pyramid
where I meditate till my broken wing
is repaired, and I am crowned your last king.
I toss away this heavy crown of power,
like children toss orange peels on dusty shore,
and sit in silence with you by loud falls
to count every bright drop that falls in rain
till I hide paradise inside stone walls
and forbid you to enter my domain.
The wagon on which my father arrived,
lost immigrant to this strange land of hope,
sits frail, cracked and submerged in weeds and mud,
since I can never return to his home
while I reign over this castle as king,
and my sons extract taxes from your hands.
The telephone of my heart rings again
so I stand in the doorway of my home,
watching cars race each other for more wealth,
and explain to young children without eyes
how stars beam pure threads of light to create
everything that exists within our dream.