Wednesday, February 18, 2009

Another Time Maybe

Here I sit, smoking my cigarettes, drinking to much coffee, listening to David Bowie's "Modern Love". Putting words to the page, which may make no sense to you, but it makes perfect sense to me. I read the news today (oh, boy), it was the same old shoot 'em up, the same old rock and roll, so I won't bore you to much with the details. The state of the state is an economic smoke screen, the world is finding new grounds on which to establish peace of war, and the US is front and center in their own minds. People continue to go about their way, picking up shiny objects, or watching their own pathetic lives tank, feeling sorry for the empty bottle in their hands.

The song changes, and I feel that it is more to the point. If I could save the world, don't you think I would really rather see it crash and burn. You know who you are, so just take up that banner, run through the streets naked and scream you are oppressed, because you are free. And from Dylan, "And you know something is happening here, but you don't know what it is, do you Mr. Jones".

I long for the suburban days, lying in the sunshine of yesterday. Sometimes I think about all those days when I was below the mist, drinking in the dew of the bog, and still giving only what was expected of me, except when I felt rather randy, then I gave more than they wanted. A show rolled into one little ball on the head of a pin, under a glass. I drove for hours, where I was going was not important, 'cause I was flying. Now I look through this liquid crystal negative, into your eyes, and what do you think I see.

Ah, my little girl, where are you now, wandering still. Did you get that from me, my gypsy ways, or is that from your mother, the wonder that she was. I am here in this cell, because I have to know, can I survive this winter storm. The ice is melting, and I am feeling the warmth of your eyes. To know the carnal wisdom of your embrace, is that to far to go for your grace.

Yet, oh and yet there are others yet. And they are aware, and they are knowing not who they are. I know them, I know them, I know them, all to well. They are children of the sun, come from the dark star, to the hope of the new dawn, be that as it may. And she is an enigma wrapped in a riddle, that I unravel so. Ah, but I let her go, to walk on her own, alone, never lonely, as I am always near.

And the mistress that now stands with me. She is a golden light to the rocky shores. She holds me when the winter enters my heart. And gives me to much of herself, selflessly, while I am just a pauper in a pawns game, the jester who has no name. I build no temple in her name, although she remains the one to whom I pray, please, please me, and baby can I drive your car. And in a flash, she says, "why don't we do it in the road", so we do. Then the song changes, and I am looking out the window.

It all unravels, multi-colored skeins, winding through fingers, and I have nothing better to do today.

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