Saturday, October 13, 2018

What Paradise Of The Past

What Paradise Of The Past
© Surazeus
2018 10 13

When people cry the world is getting worse
I wonder what paradise of the past
they remember with fondness to compare
current events rife with hostile aggression
against the backdrop of some tapestry
that paints more perfect time of social peace
that was never more than some fantasy
they dream to criticize the current scene.

My grandfather would rebuild small airplanes
in large white hangar by the grassy runway
outside quaint college town in sun-scorched Texas,
then fly the plane to missions far away
around the world where children like me played
while our parents worked for the banking kings
who rule the world from glass towers on Wall Street,
then I went home from school to watch Star Trek.

On television I watched every movie
ever made by people making up stories
since Charlie Chaplin ambled on the screen
so I have dreamed the history of our world
through the flashing lights of the cinema
which chronicles human conflicts for power
of ancient times before the world wide web
bound all our brains as nodes in the hive mind.

Outside window of the library I see
Hart Crane, Robert Lowell, and John Ashbery,
trinity of mad prophets who foretold
nothing of this crazy world I perceive,
leave behind books full of strange prophecies
on the wood bench by the statue of brass
that depicts the faceless hero of war
who helped found Republic of Dollar Bills.

They tell me nothing I already knew
as I follow their mute ghosts through the maze
of critical assessment to dispel
religious delusions blinding our eyes
so we can see the future of our actions
and understand paradise we create
where every living soul gets free health care
and education for the role we want.

I have drawn my hands away from my eyes
so I can see the restless dance of truth
record the cosmic rhythm of sea waves
when I wake and feel the dark of the world
buried with our ancestors in the graveyard
who wake inside our heads and express thoughts
alien to the puppet of self we made,
the savage Viking with an office job.

The daughter of the banker with gold crown
who ruled the world from hall of mirror eyes
flees exiled from the palace of desire
to walk beside the shining lake of hopes
where heads of assassinated kings bob
like apples in buckets at Halloween,
so I must wear mask my ancestors lost
when they left Europe for America.

From Scythia to Scotland we traveled west,
ever searching for safe new paradise
where we could build good commune of respect
till the brothers fought bloody civil war
over who will play god in castle hall
so we packed wagons to travel on west,
singing hymns as we following setting sun
where we wander lost in the Twilight Zone.

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