Wednesday, November 23, 2005

Upon Dreaming Walt Whitman Dying

Lulled into closing heavy lids
After countless hours of
Computer image and television
Jerusalem politic
And the president telling me
What to think...
Even tho' I do not think he cares.
The sandbags over my eyes commence...

the sun stands black rising and
the high amber moon rests in mists
peaking through the branches just
below the tree tops in my mind

children are playing in a
burnt out field being baby sat
by box full of micro-chip
latch-key security hung about
the neck like fatherless noose

voices echo through the pillowed pillars
inhabitants of the surreal stage
they turn their heads to see
with eyes glazed over like
static and fly paper film
hand on the touch pad-remote control
passive punks playing in cyber web
the spider in no where to be found,
but the vibrations!!!!!!!!!!!

whitman wakes---
tangled in cobweb confusion
searching for trees in this
asphalt jungle
looking for unpolluted river or
unlittered lake to swim skinny
dipped free
searching grand canyon red stone grooves
like lost tourist looking in the desert
for the nose of the sphinx.

he turns to me
with horrible grandfather expression
parent watching his own children
shoot up information heroin
--all I could say to him was...
'thats just the way time and things are walt.'

whitman revelation:
the future holds futile hours of
computer cartoon meaningless experience.

then he let out a scream...NO!!!!!!
wakes the quiet couple next door
lights come on in the pretty pink house...
but I'm a heavy sleeper and I love
my whitman dreams
he sleeps in my bed with
blake and ginsberg
while charlie parker plays

see i have never met this man
but he turns to me and says
'I didn't come to confuse the world
but to free it.'
poet messiah of young america
son of man
old man picks up walking stick
and begins to shatter screens
empty eyed video carcass wasteland
plastic splinters piercing the heart
of babylon almost reality.

the sheep are scattered
bleating on the plain
the shepherd is dying
a prince cries in the wilderness
'walt whitman, my father, is dying'
shocked by soul failure and
vision of poetry death
old man closes his eyes
cradled in the arms of poet son he whispers,
'son, you knew me, all this time....even before
you read me.
everything i wrote was for you,
leaves upon a page...
fallen from a tree.'

the heartbeat ceases beat
the sun stops shining
the moon disappears new
the rain is falling outside
my crying window...
head heavy in my dream hands
The phone rings
Birds sing
A train rolls in the distance
Attic fan clanking
dreams are sinking

Sitting up in bed
Squinting from bright daylight
"He's dying, he's dying...Walt Whitman my father is dying!"


Blogger The Stash Dauber said...

nice one spider
been too long
a coupla ways

1:31 PM  

Post a Comment

<< Home