4-23-05
With stars, low and rolling
and night, high and boiling
with crashes of silent thunder
strumming his electrified mind,
are awakened new days,
old nights, the ancient splendor
of timeless defeats;
he embraces freedom again.
Freedom!
to an old child’s cry,
Freedom!
with compassion burning,
compassing singing
with the singeing flames
of a world wrapped in this morning’s hidden rays;
freedom in a body ever-dying,
ever-screaming,
tempered children crying–
before the crazy-good Buddha’s eyes;
he’s free.
He looks up, up into the rolling sky
and he knows that primordial storm-cloud fear;
he sees the laws, spewed out
across the pie-crust-cut Earth,
feels the beat of its weariness shimmer-shudder
throughout his hollow, charcoaled matter-body;
he hears that truth that dances ‘cross the sky,
the truths of his past are haunting,
the sins of his hands regrouping,
he feels his weakness raging anew.
And in this defeated moment’s dark lesions,
he screams it away, repents his worst dealings,
succumbs to a flatter, future world-view.
And the flag of freedoms
smolders brightly and hotly, into infinite
dead and silent, grim and honest,
harsh and obnoxious, weeping; ever weeping
and never quite pained, never quite sleeping,
dead feelings;
He awakes undead, within the never-stirring,
ever-grinning grounds
of steel cemetery bars.
