Time and Sound

Waking to the working man music,

seeking the shadows in the sounds

of the nineteen seventies,

since we are all churned

into semi-sweet baked cookies

in the summer, flipped on

by the big thaws of winter

The Teflon dons

of the nineteen eighties

are switched on, switched off

Reagan era commands,

the hyper-Gothic rhymes,

the guitar-crunching cries

after the Berlin Walls

all falls down, down, down,

as the angel of lights

floats into the alternating

lime greens as the money

turns into big seas of digits,

feeding the Taurus bull

at the beginning of the new

century, swearing to sea salts

of ubiquitous security

Sure, you tried to turn

your sword of words

into plowshares

looking for a re-boot

and now the black raven

cries over your shoulder

as you spit and cuss and croon

like a barnyard babe, street-tough

as the last-born child,

when you are actually

the first as the second cloud

of the day rises in the sky

But you can stop the insanity

outside your door anymore

than you can disassemble

the arching winds working

on your bunker, Archie,

since the pride of sin

is to admit, at some point,

that we are all overpriced

princes of peace,

at ease, at best, but ill

~

Carry the candle carefully

across the darkened room

to let the drenching of earthly flesh

shine brightly in all cathedrals

curving into a bit of hope,

exchanged for the rope,

a horizon made dangerous

by lakes of ice clear as glass

Pythagoreans, Franklins, Da Vincis,

Miltons and Blakes: Mithras

is a self-made man,

independent of media scams ...

Oh words, words, what were the words?

If the hand signals to space

hidden from reasonable, orderly beings

were thrashed out of the tides,

to live here, then die,

the call of the crazed daemon

who saw the angels

in the great stadiums

of those profoundly humbled

by the mere disappearance

of one benevolent being,

then the cooperation of choruses,

a music made by band mates

never would have been a throng

But the whistles, the voices,

the bass were all dreamed here then.

in these ears, deadened as they are

from the tone of too many super stars

Surely, the sunlight, cutting through the rain

creating a hole in the sky,

means the game is on, a rapture, a sacred dance

on the holiest of grounds