09-29-2011, 06:35 AM
ECHOS
Echos . . . the reverberation that careens down
the evolutionary hallway of historical mind,
the almost deafening din mesmerizing pathos
that wails through the annuls of time.
And I don’t know how to stop this constant
blistering inside my pathetically weeping eardrums . . .
even when I sit inside the Buddha’s palm
I can feel my body vibrating.
Oh have you heard the breaking bones
of the China bird as she yearns on unforgiving
ground, longing for the sacred moisture
of mountain rivers, have you heard the fragile
raindrops falling upon Martin Luther King’s monument,
bathing his weather beaten face
with the tears and blood wept from historical
arenas of apathy.
Can you hear the bitterness inside the southern heart,
the ache of bombed out Vietnamese rice fields,
the breadless moan of Syrian children,
the terrifying scream of a revolutionary guitar,
left neglected in the darkest corner of recording
studios.
And as Bob Dylan seeks a much deserved bedroom
of peace, nobody else picks up the fragments
of naked truth he left on the ground
and uses them.
Everybody is shooting doves with bazookas
from the window where Allen Ginsberg
once had a vision of William Blake,
everyone is wandering around in non paradisial
boots, looking for the remains of the discarded
garden of consciousness and finding it empty.
Oh have you heard the confessions of elected bullets
or the ambulances disguised as heavenly chariots
or the creaking of the iron staircase that leads
to a pedestal where the portraits of yesterdays
faces are gathered and left to yellow and crack
like forgotten memories
Have you heard the falling avalanche of ashes
and withered bouquets, stranded around the base
of tombstones in some lonely graveyard
where ghost soldiers feel like cancelled cheques.
Can you hear the costumed, crouching cavalcade
of human butterflies who try to disguise
themselves as the final evening of Earth
in order to be left alone by politically
motivated entomologists, can you hear the trembling
whispers of sperm whales, the red winged blackbird
and the pock marked faces of brown bears,
who miscalculate the peril of city garbage bins.
And as Joan of Arc is once again licked
by the flames of supposed heresy, the over all
general populace of mankind feeds the fire
with discarded magazines and used oil cans.
Oh yes, everybody staggers across the snowbound
landscape of the heart, tripping once in a while
over verses from the bible and wash cloths
from a suburban kitchen sink of complacency.
Everyone is swimming in mud puddles
where steel guitars moan about the absence
of the moon and the sun and praying that the odd
star is still around.
Come on, tell me, have you heard the solitary
busker down on Gore Avenue, his fingernails
as long as a broken down symphony, his voice,
his lungs shattered and blistered like a napalm
nightmare, attempting to collect a couple
of coins before they get dropped into
Evangelistic collection plates.
Tell me, have you heard the torture chamber
resplendent with dot com idiocy
and the manipulating neon non enlightening cave
where all the sages of Wall Street gather
to masturbate between monetary spread sheets
and naked images of women young enough to be
their granddaughters.
Can you hear the spiritual descendants of Tripoli,
Baghdad and Hanoi stumbling across the smoke
filled sky, trying to pray with chocked throats
for tomorrow’s children, can you discern
the eleventh commandment, the left out verses
of the Bhagavad Gita or an ancient scroll
abandoned in some Egyptian crypt . . .
perhaps they are all screaming mercy and trying
to wash away the historical misery
perpetuated by the rules and absurdist
regulations imposed upon humanity by
the insipid iconological bastardization of ism.
And as I sit here, lost in this mecca of mumbling
monotone echoing inside my brain splitting dead
pan alley head, I come to realize we are all living
inside the evolutionary hallway
and that the only way out of here has not been
given to us yet.
Echos . . . the reverberation that careens down
the evolutionary hallway of historical mind,
the almost deafening din mesmerizing pathos
that wails through the annuls of time.
And I don’t know how to stop this constant
blistering inside my pathetically weeping eardrums . . .
even when I sit inside the Buddha’s palm
I can feel my body vibrating.
Oh have you heard the breaking bones
of the China bird as she yearns on unforgiving
ground, longing for the sacred moisture
of mountain rivers, have you heard the fragile
raindrops falling upon Martin Luther King’s monument,
bathing his weather beaten face
with the tears and blood wept from historical
arenas of apathy.
Can you hear the bitterness inside the southern heart,
the ache of bombed out Vietnamese rice fields,
the breadless moan of Syrian children,
the terrifying scream of a revolutionary guitar,
left neglected in the darkest corner of recording
studios.
And as Bob Dylan seeks a much deserved bedroom
of peace, nobody else picks up the fragments
of naked truth he left on the ground
and uses them.
Everybody is shooting doves with bazookas
from the window where Allen Ginsberg
once had a vision of William Blake,
everyone is wandering around in non paradisial
boots, looking for the remains of the discarded
garden of consciousness and finding it empty.
Oh have you heard the confessions of elected bullets
or the ambulances disguised as heavenly chariots
or the creaking of the iron staircase that leads
to a pedestal where the portraits of yesterdays
faces are gathered and left to yellow and crack
like forgotten memories
Have you heard the falling avalanche of ashes
and withered bouquets, stranded around the base
of tombstones in some lonely graveyard
where ghost soldiers feel like cancelled cheques.
Can you hear the costumed, crouching cavalcade
of human butterflies who try to disguise
themselves as the final evening of Earth
in order to be left alone by politically
motivated entomologists, can you hear the trembling
whispers of sperm whales, the red winged blackbird
and the pock marked faces of brown bears,
who miscalculate the peril of city garbage bins.
And as Joan of Arc is once again licked
by the flames of supposed heresy, the over all
general populace of mankind feeds the fire
with discarded magazines and used oil cans.
Oh yes, everybody staggers across the snowbound
landscape of the heart, tripping once in a while
over verses from the bible and wash cloths
from a suburban kitchen sink of complacency.
Everyone is swimming in mud puddles
where steel guitars moan about the absence
of the moon and the sun and praying that the odd
star is still around.
Come on, tell me, have you heard the solitary
busker down on Gore Avenue, his fingernails
as long as a broken down symphony, his voice,
his lungs shattered and blistered like a napalm
nightmare, attempting to collect a couple
of coins before they get dropped into
Evangelistic collection plates.
Tell me, have you heard the torture chamber
resplendent with dot com idiocy
and the manipulating neon non enlightening cave
where all the sages of Wall Street gather
to masturbate between monetary spread sheets
and naked images of women young enough to be
their granddaughters.
Can you hear the spiritual descendants of Tripoli,
Baghdad and Hanoi stumbling across the smoke
filled sky, trying to pray with chocked throats
for tomorrow’s children, can you discern
the eleventh commandment, the left out verses
of the Bhagavad Gita or an ancient scroll
abandoned in some Egyptian crypt . . .
perhaps they are all screaming mercy and trying
to wash away the historical misery
perpetuated by the rules and absurdist
regulations imposed upon humanity by
the insipid iconological bastardization of ism.
And as I sit here, lost in this mecca of mumbling
monotone echoing inside my brain splitting dead
pan alley head, I come to realize we are all living
inside the evolutionary hallway
and that the only way out of here has not been
given to us yet.
.
