Thursday, March 10, 2011

Two Poems of Revolution and Change

You Can’t See Me

I am the Count of the Last request
the tiny dark man of utter wind
blown and beaten down a carousel of faded flowers
thrown after a departing rainbow

white to the eyes of all unbelievers
who did not see me climb the golden tower
who do not believe there is one
and who will remain forever white for their crimes

I walk among them daily too small and dark to behold

I come in a flame
the slow burn of understanding
that will strip them naked
with no dreams remaining but their savage teeth
to devour one another with
as they see fit

they are not worth shit...
in their present condition

they plot and plot the overthrow
of what that is
they do not know

I am the casual shadow behind the sun
resting in the corners of buildings
i am shed by the crowded mind
one tuneful note of iridescent black
peering through the louvers of all time....

coiled in the vale of noplace

they shall not go free again
on that you may depend

I am the Count of Little Footsteps
the scratching of the leaves in the streets behind them
that tireless warrior....

that cold chill at the nape of the neck

death to all tyrants
death to all landlords and banks
to all things that turn the warm heart cold
and terrorize the soul....

Patrick Willis narrates:

STRIVE (for M.L.K.)

For everyone
who has ever stood and said
at any time

that Justice will triumph
that Truth shall prevail
that a fair shake
an even break
is the birthright of every living thing

and got shot down
and burned at the stake
for revealing to the darkness
that the dawn would soon break

I say

for everyone
spontaneously ignited
by that overwhelming
love from within

and who shined it forth
when the chips were down
and remained strong
while the weapons tore their flesh

I say

for everyone who has reached out to breathe
like some paranoid crustacean
crawling fearful from the sea

for everyone
who has seen the alleys
the knives
the clubs
the dreadful comprehension
of brutal intent

the horrible unrecognizing eye
of brotherhood blinded
and knew
that Love could not die

I say strive...

Patrick Willis narrates:
(For M.L.K.)

Tuesday, March 8, 2011

More Than Blue Eyes

A man must come to the desperate edge
of the walls he's built around himself
and beat with his hands on the cold hard stone
and cry for the years that he's been alone
and break like a dry dead twig
under the wheel of time
and rise
and live
and understand
the power of love in his masters hand

round and round the coffins edge
the landlords of despair
dance to the mortal earth
and bow to the mortal earth
a strange mistress
a strange mother
tell me,
which of your magics can conquer death?

What is the meaning?
What lies hidden in the cell?
from a dark barred window
I have watched the moon rise
and ghost horses
bear the dead into the moons wide mouth

eater of souls
jailor, tailor
and seamstress to the shadow-land
forever weaving the envelopes
in which to stuff another drunken puppet

this is more true than blue eyes
and all the sculptured tits
that have been since
cannot nurse the dead back to life

who goes there?
who beats the drum?
Where sleeps the heart?

That Mona Lisa smile under glass

No one really laughs
or lives
until the day their darkness dies
and few live then
they only return again
drunken with dreams

I do not think I will take upon myself
the chains of Hell
even for such a thing as your blue eyes
and perfect teeth

the dark wet hollow
of reincarnated sleep

never to wake again?

this cannot be all of it

and I am either drunk or mad
I believe in what I cannot see

I believe more deeply
than I have ever been deceived
and even then

only temporarily deceived
and even then
only out of fear

if a man should confess
or witness with his heart
that will shape the words he speaks
that will shape the life he leads
he will have a witness
he will not go down like a beast to the grave

there is no liberation in movements
there is seldom even change
must I then fear to displease
the revolutions of my time?

let history deny
or philosophy prove the lie
of my words

these are always the phrases
with which to preface
great murders

in my heart I have killed a thousand times
all the great hypocrites of the age
I have slain in my thoughts

and they are no more dead
than before I killed them
and they are no more alive
by the same token

they have never been alive
they go to the moon without my help

let sleeping dogs lie
lest they...

the knife hangs over every head
until God removes it

I am no executioner anymore

I will sit on this rock and listen
Can you hear the rock
on which he built it

Who listens deeply forgets
he forgets his earthborn name
his birth he forgets
and his shame

the world forgets him
he goes
where no one knows
who listens deeply

a new name
no one can speak it

you have been on the road a long time
you have been sleeping with swine
and drunk on bad wine

and blue eyes close
as all eyes close
and every color goes to shades of grey
in the cold vault

that is a kind of equality

and yet
you do not know
that what you are
is brighter than
the brightest star
nothing is so great
as what you are

A man must come to the desperate edge
of the walls he's built around himself
and beat with his hands on the cold hard stone
and cry for the years than he's been alone
and break like a dry dead twig
under the wheel of time
and rise
and live
and understand
the power of Love in his masters hand

Patrick Willis narrates: