A Beggar's Eyes Look for Heaven's Disguise
by Matt Catania
A piercéd call to rise from dreams so real
Is soothing so, that when I wake it seems
that I had never woke at all. I feel
as if a dream I wake to from a dream.
Caws so soft and merry welcome daybreak.
Voices of Heaven dare not be hastened
Nor be silenced. No flute or harp can take
the place of serenade wings so destined
to bring the dawn to be renewed each day.
And thankless if a chill would dare be wrought
By cloud or shade or other malice lame;
And thankless if a drop or flake be brought –
Voices of Heaven burned but not to blame.
…Is it true the fool is the only one
who will search for the light without the sun?...
The coal fire train screeches down the tracks.
Howling, shuddering shrieks of steel on steel.
The Howitzer shakes the ground when it cracks.
The thunder booms, trembling trees… sting surreal.
The car, it grinds and growls fierce down the road.
So angry, so full of contempt - frightful!
The plane splits the air and the clouds explode!
Bird wings break with sonic booms – delightful!
What does a bomb sound like when it blows up
when it’s within killing distance to you?
Does it screech, or cry when it’s that close up;
or is that not what you’re listening to…
Do you secret yourself away from all
The shrieking and screaming before you fall…
Have you ever smelled a rose in full bloom?
Fresh with the morning dew still clinging to
the petals opened neatly to make room
for that sweet perfume the air was born to
wear. That scent, so naturally cunning…
cooled by the eastern dew. That scent of soft
pink, touched by the velvet wind streams running –
as Heaven’s breath. Brush the lone bee aloft:
such a woeful life! Restless dreams of rest!
Whispers west in ear: freedom grows upstream…
a hopeful life! can be free for all; lest
the pink rose and east dew are cast downstream…
…Is it true the fool is the only one
who will search for the light without the sun?...
Send that barge on its way… on its way on
the open seas. Send that barge to distant
lands – where a flowers scent will not enchant
the air as it may please. Send that barge on
its way… on its way on the open seas.
The sights and smells its haul dispels will curse
all those who see: the rotting flesh disperse
its fresh new scents as long as it may please.
If you see that barge on its way along
the open seas: be careful not to cross
its path or pass its deadly breeze. Take care
and keep a watchful eye: its stench is strong,
its mounds piled high with human waste and loss,
destined to destroy all hope of fresh air.
The mother oh so lightly folds the blades
of grass beneath her legs. So cool and wet
it tingles sweetly to her core. She prays
her fragile babies do the same. They set
those carefree legs upon the uncertain
Earth, abloom with life and naïvety.
Cool, wet, strong, and crisp - a brisk wind curtain
Runs its hand through their fur, but lets them be.
She leads them to a berry bush to show
them how to feed. When night becomes as pure
as this, the berries turn to falling snow.
Her ears ever watchful for sounds unsure.
Is it true the fool is the only one
who will search for the light without the sun?
The rotting engine cranks; gnashes its gears
together worse than a thousand rank teeth.
Flow that slow thick slime all over those gears.
Let them spit and spew that puke through their teeth.
Burp and fart that stink all over my air.
So much better than anything else could.
push push Push pedal harder I DON’T CARE
dig Dig for more thick shit juice like we should
Smear and streak that black rubber all over
the coarse, harsh searing hot strip of dead rock
cutting and carving our way wherever
we want it to go. Go all the way back
Through all the trees and that sweet berry bush.
Splatter anything near – we’re in a rush.
The Albatross, upon its gallant span
flies ever wistfully from shore to shore.
His nearly endless odyssey from land
to distant land, his errant search for more –
above the clouds … to touch the stars! … and fall
to Earth again: he too must rest; as well
as any life that honors Heaven’s call.
Never shall he dare consciously to quell
the splendrous gift of rest: the stars would fry
to dust, the clouds would turn to ash, the seas
would dry to a crag – but on he would fly…
without end … crying for his time to cease.
…Is it true the fool is the only one
who will search for the light without the sun?...
“Rip his shirt and break his nose. Make it look
real. Don’t touch him so much, you’re leavin’ prints!”
- he said. They tore through his pockets for hints
of money. They found a 20, and took
it. “All that fuckin’ work we put in, look
what we fuckin’ get!” He said with a wince.
“Fuck, I think I got hit…” He searched for prints
of blood – when he found it, he froze. “Man … look
what happened … oh shit … oh shit… what do I
do?!” “Give me the money before your blood
gets all over it.” “Ok … ok… here
man… now help me! I think I’m gonna die!”
“I know you are man: you lost too much blood.”
“Wait… wait- ow, man, help! Please! DON’T LEAVE ME HERE!”
Is it true the fool is the only one
who will search for the light without the sun?
- Or is the fool perhaps the only one
who will never need light to find the sun?
No comments:
Post a Comment