And crackhead actors
And the sacrifice castles
Now sublet as studios
With ivy like the highways
Down and out in all directions
To wreathe in laurel
Painfully unrealized dreams
In perfect weather
For every aspiration
To be lost inside
Threadbare, still haunted villas.
We've lost our identities
Just like those who've turned
To stone as sidewalk stars
And concrete casts of palms,
Our heroes
Who we never even knew
Outside a role
We were played
To fool us to forgetting
Who we were
The heroes all along
Of the silver
Now embossed as dragons
Locked in theatre stone,
The next best thing to
Being there
As they are
Fixed on by the hard
Horde of eyes,
The next best thing to ruins,
The records tower
Round as nature,
Egyptian pillars
To house the oscar, faceless,
Antiquated cinemas
Still lit with klieg
But offering torture,
Pasties, wigs,
Burnt offerings
Of the holly wand's
Ceremonial magic
For belief
That what is
Here
Could ever be
Real.
There are blue lights
Down the street
Enforcing curfew
On the multitudes
But just a few brave souls
Wave flags
About no kings
Atop of bridges.
They too are extras
In the cantina
Of stories that need
To keep repeating,
Old stories
Of how we aren't
And we will
Never be.
There's a pink
Compound with stars
On the gate
That preaches peace,
Holds light
In flood darkness
Like it holds in
Souls
In its well-stocked
Cabins
Carefully trimmed to catch
The sparkles of late light
On galactically inspired
Fountains
Dedicated to a founder
Who is far away now
So his existence can't be
Questioned
Except as how we worship ...
Him, as hero.
Is it enough, these
Woven cushions
On the straightback chairs
To turn the darkness
Into something beyond these
Renditions of Jesus
And Krishnamurti
We see on the walls
And all the avatars
Who brought
What we thought of as
Our own freedom?
It is service they say,
With every possible
Emotion,
Even calling in Sananda
Who bristles with love
As he dubs
The soundtrack with
An empty ache of yearning,
What we're not supposed
To be able
To feel, being led
To the cage
Like the line
At the Palladium,
Of all the sad
Mexican teens
Who now believe
They are not free
To dream
So they can wallow
In restlessness
As if they only
Exist
In the waiting
With the myths
And all the pictures
Long since left
This blessed earth.
