Loneliest Town On Earth
© Surazeus
2018 02 08
Holding a ripe orange I bought for a quarter
at the roadside stand by the laundromat,
I amble past gas stations and motels
where yellow bushes slouch under phone lines.
Following the broad black asphalt highway,
where electric lines hang in desert heat,
I walk into the pale blue emptiness
that opens my heart to vast nothingness.
One hundred and forty five years ago
my great-great-grandfather Elof Sjoberg
sailed with his wife and children on wood ship
from Sweden to the loneliest town on Earth.
Now my Odyssean ghost with aching heart
walks the streets of Green River in Utah
to follow their trail along gushing stream
through Desolation Canyon of the mind.
I hear the creaking of wood wagon wheels
that grind white rocks among the treeless buttes
ten thousand years in the waste land of hope,
following Moroni to the Promised Land.
Banished by Jesus from lush paradise
the serpent of temptation slithers slick
among the sagebrush by green gushing stream,
leading us to where the Tree of Life blooms.
We build log cabin by green roiling river
and cultivate alfalfa in the sun,
but never find the secret tree of apples
though we sing hymns under the bright Milky Way.
We followed the prophet of America
west over stormy seas and desolate hills
to find the promised land of paradise
but found hungry fear in handfuls of dust.
Young Edwin traveled north to Idaho
where he met sweet Clara with sparkling eyes,
so he built their own paradise on Earth
and raised three children in the vale of songs.
Sitting in college library at sunset,
Clara, descended from Puritan Poet
Anne Bradstreet, dreams progress of history
embodied in tales of heroes and fools.
Now I play guitar sea to shining sea,
atheist prophet for Paradise of Now,
composing scripture for my own religion
that celebrates the spinning of our world.
I come home to the loneliest town on Earth
and spell electric body of our souls
to dance with death across abyss of love
as we all sing in the choir of lost souls.
© Surazeus
2018 02 08
Holding a ripe orange I bought for a quarter
at the roadside stand by the laundromat,
I amble past gas stations and motels
where yellow bushes slouch under phone lines.
Following the broad black asphalt highway,
where electric lines hang in desert heat,
I walk into the pale blue emptiness
that opens my heart to vast nothingness.
One hundred and forty five years ago
my great-great-grandfather Elof Sjoberg
sailed with his wife and children on wood ship
from Sweden to the loneliest town on Earth.
Now my Odyssean ghost with aching heart
walks the streets of Green River in Utah
to follow their trail along gushing stream
through Desolation Canyon of the mind.
I hear the creaking of wood wagon wheels
that grind white rocks among the treeless buttes
ten thousand years in the waste land of hope,
following Moroni to the Promised Land.
Banished by Jesus from lush paradise
the serpent of temptation slithers slick
among the sagebrush by green gushing stream,
leading us to where the Tree of Life blooms.
We build log cabin by green roiling river
and cultivate alfalfa in the sun,
but never find the secret tree of apples
though we sing hymns under the bright Milky Way.
We followed the prophet of America
west over stormy seas and desolate hills
to find the promised land of paradise
but found hungry fear in handfuls of dust.
Young Edwin traveled north to Idaho
where he met sweet Clara with sparkling eyes,
so he built their own paradise on Earth
and raised three children in the vale of songs.
Sitting in college library at sunset,
Clara, descended from Puritan Poet
Anne Bradstreet, dreams progress of history
embodied in tales of heroes and fools.
Now I play guitar sea to shining sea,
atheist prophet for Paradise of Now,
composing scripture for my own religion
that celebrates the spinning of our world.
I come home to the loneliest town on Earth
and spell electric body of our souls
to dance with death across abyss of love
as we all sing in the choir of lost souls.
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