Growing up of the Baby God
Amazing grace, how bitter-sweet this sounds on Pentecost;
I thought that I was found, but once again it seems I'm lost.
An impatient gestation, twenty years of labour pain
and struggle; it is silly to be born yet once again.
Ironically la petite-morte conceives a quo pro quid;
a darkness-filled mind greys into a smart alecky kid
reflecting on the strange dichotomy of everyday;
why pins pointed in one direction are headed the other way,
on the bumpy Highway 7 in a little cramped red car
with a newly found love for life and an old friend from afar.
A shimmering cloud of dusty heat makes my throat to shrink
as noises fill my head and make it difficult to think.
I think of all that I have got, yet not a thing to show
'cause they see what they want to see, to die it is they grow.
The have-nots give new birth to hope, to change, and to be free.
while ich will alles so dead of mind, the irony kills me…
A yo-yo's life of boom and bust in monotonic time;
who cares who scorches, dries, or dies, the night is "gin and lime."
With aisles of cat-n-dog food for our pedigreed pet whim,
we stuff ourselves in a twilight getting complacently dim;
making the most of rations for an evening's big fling
by singing sixty's sing-alongs on budgeted six strings.
The sated mind breeds ills with which the frugal meal is fraught;
a joke and the empty chair provide a lot more food for thought.
We who want our slaves to help us wear our freedom's crown
must remember what goes down comes up as what goes up comes down;
the familiar is distracting, is disturbing, living dead,
fecundity unbounded like a toppling-heavy head
that carries in its decapitated, blank, unseeing eyes,
a numbing whitewashed nothingness that just can't hide the lies.
But in this deadening life there stems an urge to rearrange—
not a tired change of permanence but a permanence of change;
a gentle, soft caress, a touch with strength rejuvenates
and drums up a new verse upon the fairly smudged up slate.
A song, a tune, words whimpered to a purr between the hands
in a language that sounds magical 'cause I can't understand,
urges me to listen to the rhythm in my heart
and see with open eyes, a compelling difficult art
looking up across the worldly blue dome of my eyes
with acid rain of tears snaking sperm-like from the skies
that washes clean all I have known with a caustic biting pain;
a Tabula Rasa capable of giving birth again.
Ground to zero, naked in the knowledge I'm alone
fixed as the base that bears the line that's etched an arc in stone.
my homecoming churns up the muck in which He tiredly plods;
I've grown up, now it's time for me to rearrange my gods.
It takes me by surprise again, indeed the truth is strange
you created, you have caused it. hey! you are the change.
and what breeds change better than the mind that's on a spin…
cogito ergo sum… but… I am what I imagine.
This one is inspired by my source of joy and strife,
my sweet imagination, my afflatus… it's my life.