Minneapolis is now colder than Mars
But that doesn't mute the mutinous mutables
Who have lost their drones and sinecures
And asked to secure their fat
As part of a holy sacrament of life ongoing
To the vats marked “Tallow”
For an drifter to haul to Grace or P&G, in a process
Of dissolution that Criscos the chain,
Takes the edge off the lye,
Makes the dog eat razor blades.
Anything can be anything, you see,
A puddle jump becomes
A hundred dollar hamburger,
A redneck reuben can pair
With roadkill fries,
So thoughts seek out their opposites.
They grow and they die
In the obsolescence of being done,
Of standing still
In the rhythm that is the divine.
But thoughts are endless
Like the leaves in October, everywhere,
Phosphorescent, in a swirl.
Their purpose is to fall
After all, to free the sky, and for us
Not to attach
To what can no longer be in heaven,
What we never can hold
Long enough
To become still.
The solar storms are waking up
Those who've never felt safe before,
Told they were in charge,
Taken places on their palanquin
In exchange for a peculiar type of attention.
It's a fine line between parent and child,
Which one's hunger for love will win?
The heart, it needs so much more than is given.
It wants approval from everyone and everything,
As if what never came could return.
But you are every parent dying for love
And every child that cries for it.
You’ve done this for a million years,
On Tiamat, in Babylon,
On the down to the grotty
Hot spots, which you go to to use
As reference points,
Like the homeless spread
Around the town
To seek distance from their kind.
It is always love that is all you have,
And invitation open to create more
From a world designed for you
And you alone to breathe life into.
It's both perfect and meaningless,
Mirroring in every sunscored glass
What you project.
That's what it's for,
The thing you are,
Always withheld.
Baudelaire’s poet also plays this
In the clouds, those blue Decembers,
Such a pure duende, where Icarus
Doesn’t fall but remains
No closer to earth, nor nearer to heaven
And it makes you long down here
For the lost, for the trace of the divine
You'd heard of from a lyre you'll never hear,
What got garbled in transit, in the translation
From wordless to word one. The thought.
They communicate to you now
From overhead, those cloud forms,
To the ground crew who live heaven
In gaia's compost, and only know
To feel their way through
As the mask is pulled seductively away
And you are free, and you can see,
Albeit slow to realize
That what you long for
In this case turns out to be you.
