Delphic Libretto

prophet jester subsisting on social disparity
Portrayed paint reflects back a face
to believe in, a voice to tell the tale.
The frame upon your wall you call a mirror,
gilded Wonderland glance twain
to fantasies more mundane.
Innocent, poet, a life made of art and circumstance.
Freezing on gulag steppes,
clothed, swaddled, in wet coarse linen
to bring visions,
bare-eyed ecstasies.
Nothing to leave behind but blood,
devastated skin.
Consciousness will feed on new tongues,
unexpected intersection.
Connective tissue, sustenance
to construct radiant streets and bridges,
bright lit dendrites, limbic highways.
It was an arduous escape,
starker than Cassandra.
surreptitious bugs
gorge on social disease, malaise, excrete rancor,
rabid unease, sorrow-gate targets, deep scarring memes.
when none agree to hear,
to be aware,
through repeated pleading for their ear.
“It don’t pay to trust anyone with something to sell.”
But, then, ain’t we all selling.
Proud claim honor, bound to co-opt disgust, disapproval.
It’s my time, my interpretation, my place, purpose, revels and revelations.
I’ve learned to live without hope, through managed habit.
The paradigm of enslavement only secures they in its thrall.
Otherwise, it’s just crass bullying, extortion, nothing to succor or obey.
The sane deploy avoidance, or if unavoidable, defense —
improvised from any available resource. Flight, fight, laughter,
mad disregard, mad incursion, reason, whatever carrot and stick
comes to mind and hand.
Best to understand who I am, how I am strong, how I am free.
Feather fine senses.
A bias toward the impeccable.
Fascination with Betelgeuse and Scheherazade.
When certain poets speak:
Effulgent starlight, primal flames, ecstasy’s melting conflagration
flow through bestial visionary waves,
create, combine in eternal sacred chambers,
fashion sculpture upon seasoned sand.
Post-apocalyptic – so much grittier than post-modern.
Sad slant shanty, cardboard and tarp,
a wait-hole in endless rain.
Sustained on bits of mice and spider’s web.
Better than paying by the ray for our dear Sun
by spinning straw from gold — dizzy spinning
never quite seeing the light.
I open lungs and blood blind eyes.
Walk through mirrors, singing for passage.

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