Hole Of Death

Hole Of Death
© Surazeus
2017 09 06

When I tune my brain, like a radio
or a television, to receive signals
from brains of people which beam mental waves,
I dream the dramas that their brains design
and thus perceive mythical archetypes
that calculate social process of change.

I surf through the channels of human dreams
and scope the progress of development
as we advance from hunters roaming far
through farmers cultivating crops of food
to craftsmen selling goods in market towns
till vast empires connect large nation-states
in networks of commercial enterprise.

In every social play one person plays
the role of God as king or president
to organize the actions of each person
to produce food so everyone may eat
who contributes to the mission of growth,
rewarded for the labor of their hands.

The captain leads his men into dark woods
where they meet and fight other groups of men,
killing each other in wars over rights
to breed new generation of strong children
who fight again over who reigns as God,
and thus rivers of hot blood from their souls
nourish the thirsty Earth with their desires
so flowers blossom from their shattered brains.

The children who survive will redesign
the paradigm they use to reconstruct
new society on ruins of war.

The little boy who walks high windy hill
picks up the oak branch that lies in tall grass
and stands on the ridge where the sun gleams gold
to gaze at clouds over the glittering sea.

I must cultivate the ability
to perceive the real essence of each object
that radiates from inner core of its being,
and comprehend how its vibrating atoms
urge its motion through labyrinth of space
so I can predict the path it will blaze.

The prophet climbs the steep ziggurat stairs
and stands before the goddess of the world
to present model of our spinning globe
and explains how her people wander lost
as homeless refugees in distant lands
and learn their strange new languages to speak
while forgetting the legends she once told.

We lost our way in the shadowy woods
and emerged into weird fantasy world
where gods we worship are condemned as devils,
but we preserve their sacred memories
in folktales that recall their comic foibles
when they danced on the edge of the abyss.

I took off the crown that weighed down my head
and ran away from the dominant tower
to hide in the cave of prophetic power
while armies of angry men with sharp swords
slaughtered each other over apple trees.

I sit on the sea shore and sing with waves
how God sleeps in minerals, wakes in plants,
walks in animals, and thinks in humans
who gather at hearths and sing tales of love
while gazing at visions among the stars.

The dead may still haunt our bright city streets,
swirling around us in our memories,
nothing more than whispered names in the wind,
who understand the reasons we still strive
to break out of the hard shell of tradition
that they forged in their struggles to survive,
yet we ignore the proverbs of their failures
and walk nowhere down long halls of locked doors.

I gaze in each new mirror on the wall
and see a different person looking back
who dreamed they are the center of the drama
that swirls in restless traffic of ambition
through the corridors of hunger and hope
but nothing of them all now here remains
in the Nowhere land where I rule as king
by measuring the landscape of our dreams.

If you stop here along your busy trek
to wealth and power in the maze of desire,
and listen to the riddles that I sing,
you will miss your ride on the golden horse
who runs swiftly on the merry-go-round
of your capital conquest of the Earth
because you never found the puzzle piece
I slipped into the picket of your shirt.

So forget you saw me singing old spells
on the street before First National Bank
where kings store their hearts in the secret vault,
and go swimming in the posh hotel pool
while the hurricane bears down on the coast,
and watch the sun glowing red in smoke haze
where refugees from holy wars of God
wander the waste land of lost signless roads,
searching for the promised land with no name
where people already farm wheat and cows.

When I descend Parnassus to the castle
where the jesters and clowns gather to feast,
they bar the door against my weathered face
and refuse me entrance to paradise
though I bear the oak book of prophecies
that Saturn carved into our stubborn hearts,
since it is the treasure they claim to seek.

I laugh surprised just when I realize
the jesters and clowns who sing riddling spells
think they are divine wizards and bards
who recite sacred scriptures angels bring,
since no one attends the hushed breathless halls
where they recite their narcissistic spells.

I stand on the mountain in blasting rain
and sing the lightning flash that strikes my heart,
then weave from spooling threads of ringing words
grand tapestries depicting noble deeds
of curious scientists who search for truth
in this real world of whole atomic forms
where no deities manipulate things.

The little boy, alone on the green hill,
laughs when three ravens land in the oak tree,
gathers red mushrooms after purple rain
for the old woman with one eye to cook,
then eats mushroom cider while she explains
the fertile secret of eternal life
when he blasts his soul in the hole of death.