My Movie

Now after my death,
After Life, After loving
Growing and strife.
JFK sits in his directors
Chair, making my movie.
And as lead role, Jim,
Nearby curiously sits the
Love interest, in some
Metaphorical form, a
Virgin Catholic. The score
Often appears disjointed,
Erratic, and lost. It's some
Psychedelic tune lost in an
Everglade. At the opening
Preview they file in;
John Adams, Spinoza, MLK,
Mr. Dean, a few forgotten movie
Stars, and some poets in between.
Here there are no nationalists,
No politicians, racists, skeptics,
Or lonely lost men. In fact there
Are no men at all, nor any women.
Just you and me with light flooding
The T.V. screen. Watching this
Movie alive, yet maybe a little dead,
And somehow I know how it's
Going to end. With a flash of smoke,
red, and tears cried, but not for me.
For you, yes you; the one watching
The screen with pale blue eyes.

Brook Farm

Here we stand at Brook Farm,
Within and without,
A deep blue sky in reflective placidity,
With green, wavy green, edging along Walden,
Like a soul, in a sequestered home.

And my noble friends,
Standing on the giants' shoulders,
Seeing far, far, far, to a distant horizon,
To that which too few have glimpsed,
That mystic shaman's vision,
Disobedience of the patriots lips.

O my insanity has outgrown my genius,
Has this lantern been here all night?
Casting shadows and light,
Over this perplexing dyslectic sight.

No roads can connect our fleeting lives
Books burnt in our young man's mind
Its their fault I say, Its their fault I say!
As well as yours and mine,
This sinister web of enchanted fright.

What is a dollar in your wallet,
Compared to a man's life?
What is living,
Without both suffering and delight?

So here on Brook Farm,
I embrace my last friends.
Here on Brook Farm,
I embrace the end of my own.
Here on Brook Farm,
I found the diamonds lost in sand.

Now the lions are coming,
And the Queen won't wait,
First foot forward,
Through the open gate.