Saturday, July 20, 2013

The Eye and I



I have died and I have killed
Done what Abraham’s trepidation never had to swallow
At an imaginary voice I never had the blessing to hear
Stop there is still hope for a stand in the jungle-land

A ram is coming like a mirror that death comes to us all
Unless one can be an idea in a story passed in whispers, translations
To schemers, incomprehensible

I see the darkness of the edge, swallowed the rain swishing the sludge
From a hurricane pouring in from the coast tear the roof and flood the floors
Mold the walls and fling the wood, rampage the crib and tear the sheets
Strip the paint off the doors and eyes meet

Open air nothing to nothing in a stare down with the sky
Made my peace looking the storm in the eye
You’ve got a valley; I’ve got legs
Walk the Mississippi, don’t want a baptism

The first one did no good
Watched by an evangelist and a dead man
Two parents that never understood anything, but that I am not like the rest
Contradiction in polarity bursting out this chest

Anarchist, contrarian, slay the conversation with the lungs of the authoritarian
All I wanted was civility and you brought me a god damn Pepsi
Bullets and whiskey not afraid to let you know I am a murderer
All legal right in the files, convict a dead man

Can’t put me in a prison; I’ve been lodged inside my head my whole life
Everything I ever loved was either an illusion or better off if I never existed
Say nothing, do nothing, pray nothing, hope nothing, faith nothing
Be an idea

In place of a factory of destruction; strip down to the either / or
Presenting hypothesis, but never conclusions and sit like a moth on the wisps of time
Disguised in routines of ramrod institutions
Crawling inward to thoughts like a labyrinth, deeper daily,
(wondering if there is ever benefit to peering out)

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