The wise fool,
The stupid fool,
The nullity,
Motley stiltwalks
In checkerboard socks
Between two towers
That look like my
own house
Usher falling
Past life bricks.
They power the Chariot
That's taken us
Through grapeleaves
On Dala horses. They are the towers
Bathed in gold
On the Death card,
The poles for the baying under the Moon,
The balance
The High Priestess knows
And takes with her.
The Tower in tarot always falls,
Material turns illusion
Not with a soft firefly glow
But the final war for truth,
The truth of the experience.
And the Jester,
Miss Hester,
Has no scepter
So she can't tell it
To the king who
Has long since left for Orion,
Which she carries on her belt
On the vintage harlequin suit
With stilts that lift her
Like a marionette
Above the tarn
To the heaven
Of albatross.
But the Fool cannot smile.
The towers lurch
But nothing moves
Cept our eyes
As we wait
For both to fall,
And fall they will,
For stilts can't
Hold up the juggler's balls,
How things are funny
Until they aren't.
