Invisible House Of Names
© Surazeus
2018 07 08
Who wants to blow up the old Brooklyn Bridge,
that rusting symbol of false Liberty
that some mad bard once eulogized in song
though still its steel wires harp the laughing wind?
I walk the sugar sands of Miami Beach,
peering into bright blur of swirling shapes,
unable to see sharp outlines of things
because someone stole my glasses last night.
When the exile returns from bombed hotel,
since all rulers of the world are now dead,
the holy innocents on the black rock
count tombstones in the graveyard by the sea.
I never take off my road-muddied shoes
when I enter cathedral of the dead
to talk to the idol of shining light
on which I fix face-mask of my first father.
Beyond the Rainbow Mountains to the east
I search for Mary, mother of dead god
who returns unnoticed every ten years
as the most popular man of the hour.
I find Mother Mary in short pink dress
waiting tables at the road-side cafe
while her son sings for the rock and roll band
who leads rebels against the government.
Before I open the rusting steel door
of my green Mustang, I sense in gold tree
the Raven of Nevermore who recites
the secret name of the Glimmerglass Girl.
I drive to the house on abandoned farm
where I played chase with the first girl I loved
and stare at reflection of timeless trees
who watch me from the green pond of desire.
Though my first ancestor sailed to this land
four hundred years ago from Fairy Island,
I am the stranger in America
who walks along the shores of all its rivers.
I build new bridges wherever I go
and leave my ghost still walking in the snow
since everyone sees me far off in mist
still chasing the Glimmerglass Girl I love.
How many dawns flashing from vast abyss
spark aching desire of my hungry heart
so I rise from grave of my broken dreams
and pretend to fly through labyrinth of stores?
They are all there, the faces I have known,
still embodied in the space where I saw
their vibrant lusts concealed within their mask,
though I have passed that way too long ago.
Each human is one spark of flashing soul
that shoots into the celebrating sky
and glows duration of their time to sing,
then bursts in death to light infinite why.
Alone one person in vast city maze,
I follow pulsing star of destiny
I choose as purpose to guide my performance,
invisible to million other souls.
They play their roles they invent from desire
but I catch only glimpses of their acts,
and millions of soliloquies swirl by
unworded on the swift indifferent wind.
I cannot find the channel where your tale
unravels thread of soul through labyrinth
that leads to lair of the Glimmerglass Girl
whom you worship in your unfinished life.
So that is why I go to Paumanok
and walk the endless beach of bird footprints
to hear the weird secret the wraith reveals
in every surfing wave that swirls my heart.
Back to the castle of the weary lord
we might return with wagons full of wheat,
but who would give us coins for each plump bag
so we can buy bread for cold winter nights?
Feeling I should be somewhere more important,
I stand alone and mute in evening sky
to wonder at huge pillars of red clouds
that loom above the world of broken things.
Part of no community of lost souls
who sing hymns of hope for eternal life,
I compose new hymns from silent despair
to celebrate the angst that twists my soul.
Tree of Life that grows from skull of my father
blooms apples that congeal both sun and rain,
so we consume ripe bodies of ancestors
because we will merge with soil where trees grow.
Stars scripture on our eyes the ancient tales
in gleaming cantos of bottomless seas
to idolize the glamorous characters
of heroes who all vanish in the text.
Forth into unvanquished space I explore
unmeasured meadows where wild horses run
to be the wind in willows which inspires
anguish of my heart to bloom into joy.
Though you may enter my labyrinth of words
with heart weighed down by meaningless despair,
each quick reverse of coded thought should spark
joyful celebration of nothingness.
Ahead of me on signless road of mist
I see four ghosts of bards who sang before,
so I follow their steps through bleak waste land
and build new castle on wild river shore.
Walt Whitman, Robert Penn Warren, Hart Crane,
and Robert Lowell gather on hill top
to dance around the statue of Anne Bradstreet
who pours apple cider on my bowed head.
Face glistening with the light of bright stars,
which all burned out billions of years ago,
I rise from the grave of my rotten heart
eager to love again in game of life.
At the oak desk in the red-brick library
I map the journey of countless lost souls
whose faces shine from white clouds in blue sky
to calculate the secrets of their names.
Down endless hall of mirrors I may find
masks worn by every soul who ever lived
polished clean and organized in neat rows
by the Glimmerglass Girl who knows my name.
These secrets I reveal to none but you
so take this key I molded from star stone
and open wide cathedral door of song
to welcome everyone in House of Names.
© Surazeus
2018 07 08
Who wants to blow up the old Brooklyn Bridge,
that rusting symbol of false Liberty
that some mad bard once eulogized in song
though still its steel wires harp the laughing wind?
I walk the sugar sands of Miami Beach,
peering into bright blur of swirling shapes,
unable to see sharp outlines of things
because someone stole my glasses last night.
When the exile returns from bombed hotel,
since all rulers of the world are now dead,
the holy innocents on the black rock
count tombstones in the graveyard by the sea.
I never take off my road-muddied shoes
when I enter cathedral of the dead
to talk to the idol of shining light
on which I fix face-mask of my first father.
Beyond the Rainbow Mountains to the east
I search for Mary, mother of dead god
who returns unnoticed every ten years
as the most popular man of the hour.
I find Mother Mary in short pink dress
waiting tables at the road-side cafe
while her son sings for the rock and roll band
who leads rebels against the government.
Before I open the rusting steel door
of my green Mustang, I sense in gold tree
the Raven of Nevermore who recites
the secret name of the Glimmerglass Girl.
I drive to the house on abandoned farm
where I played chase with the first girl I loved
and stare at reflection of timeless trees
who watch me from the green pond of desire.
Though my first ancestor sailed to this land
four hundred years ago from Fairy Island,
I am the stranger in America
who walks along the shores of all its rivers.
I build new bridges wherever I go
and leave my ghost still walking in the snow
since everyone sees me far off in mist
still chasing the Glimmerglass Girl I love.
How many dawns flashing from vast abyss
spark aching desire of my hungry heart
so I rise from grave of my broken dreams
and pretend to fly through labyrinth of stores?
They are all there, the faces I have known,
still embodied in the space where I saw
their vibrant lusts concealed within their mask,
though I have passed that way too long ago.
Each human is one spark of flashing soul
that shoots into the celebrating sky
and glows duration of their time to sing,
then bursts in death to light infinite why.
Alone one person in vast city maze,
I follow pulsing star of destiny
I choose as purpose to guide my performance,
invisible to million other souls.
They play their roles they invent from desire
but I catch only glimpses of their acts,
and millions of soliloquies swirl by
unworded on the swift indifferent wind.
I cannot find the channel where your tale
unravels thread of soul through labyrinth
that leads to lair of the Glimmerglass Girl
whom you worship in your unfinished life.
So that is why I go to Paumanok
and walk the endless beach of bird footprints
to hear the weird secret the wraith reveals
in every surfing wave that swirls my heart.
Back to the castle of the weary lord
we might return with wagons full of wheat,
but who would give us coins for each plump bag
so we can buy bread for cold winter nights?
Feeling I should be somewhere more important,
I stand alone and mute in evening sky
to wonder at huge pillars of red clouds
that loom above the world of broken things.
Part of no community of lost souls
who sing hymns of hope for eternal life,
I compose new hymns from silent despair
to celebrate the angst that twists my soul.
Tree of Life that grows from skull of my father
blooms apples that congeal both sun and rain,
so we consume ripe bodies of ancestors
because we will merge with soil where trees grow.
Stars scripture on our eyes the ancient tales
in gleaming cantos of bottomless seas
to idolize the glamorous characters
of heroes who all vanish in the text.
Forth into unvanquished space I explore
unmeasured meadows where wild horses run
to be the wind in willows which inspires
anguish of my heart to bloom into joy.
Though you may enter my labyrinth of words
with heart weighed down by meaningless despair,
each quick reverse of coded thought should spark
joyful celebration of nothingness.
Ahead of me on signless road of mist
I see four ghosts of bards who sang before,
so I follow their steps through bleak waste land
and build new castle on wild river shore.
Walt Whitman, Robert Penn Warren, Hart Crane,
and Robert Lowell gather on hill top
to dance around the statue of Anne Bradstreet
who pours apple cider on my bowed head.
Face glistening with the light of bright stars,
which all burned out billions of years ago,
I rise from the grave of my rotten heart
eager to love again in game of life.
At the oak desk in the red-brick library
I map the journey of countless lost souls
whose faces shine from white clouds in blue sky
to calculate the secrets of their names.
Down endless hall of mirrors I may find
masks worn by every soul who ever lived
polished clean and organized in neat rows
by the Glimmerglass Girl who knows my name.
These secrets I reveal to none but you
so take this key I molded from star stone
and open wide cathedral door of song
to welcome everyone in House of Names.
No comments:
Post a Comment