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A Poem for…
A Poem by Douglas Caraballo
And suddenly the stars are up to greet the sun, in long distanced cool warders of lilac milk and cave dwelling fairies. The shadow plays on the wall. The over under arching broken back red dust pyres of stone in Arizona. Windows to something much deeper and much more relevant to our story. The soul makes an appearance on the stage then dances away. The heart beats still within its ribbed cage, mirroring universal numbers and burnt out hippies chanting amongst the trees of Atitlan. The suit is blue and close cropped hair in close cropped boardrooms press onwards. The peasants are all out of bread. The air is rushing over the hudson. I watch as mass delusion sweeps through crowd after crowd, on screen after screen. Shut it off! I turn the page in another book. “the world is owned by a small cartel of banking families who stir up wars and depressions to ward against inflation and deflation.” Interesting….Written by Bill Clintons Mentor. Meanwhile people burn and burn with rage they cannot identify. Two year olds unable to communicate their feelings, who do not know who to direct their rage towards. If only there were evil people somewhere that we could rid the world of. Then the smoothness of drinking our brains out on the weekend would return to normal, and the growing spread of Gonorrhrea could resume its flaming path towards more genitalia. People taking advice from clowns who profit off of suffering. Yelling at neighbors, and claiming all knowing. It is old. I sit here with my books. Watching the all growing — unfolding macro event play itself out on the world stage. The sky is still blue, and the ocean is still out there… somewhere passed the arms of sound.
