Lift Him Up

Up thru this gorge, stone steps past waterfalls,
Each summer, from the beach up to the tree line,
Three thousand foot ascent, this bicycle –
I only used it for revolutionary calls –
The fall’s like how non-divine angels recline –
Is at my side, now a burden, still a protest;
O tall’s the fir, but deeper the freefalls of the stalactickle,
So is my climb defined by its proceeding rest.

She as my guide has abandoned me to gravity,
Her lust is closer stronger, farther more theoretical;
My feet & hands guided by imagination
Can construct, literally build this fantasy,
My tinker’s brain can destruct this reality,
Can fashion roots of kingdoms more than magical;
A virgin songwriter begins by imitation,
Then returns to his muse this autumn in a pumpkin.

I have forsaken the news, the history of today,
Each stone tablet is a false prophecy of the present!
Was it towards Guillaume Dufay I should direct my focus?
I’ve eaten my map, my compass is wrapped up in my tent,
I’ve started singing limericks about the non-linearness of time,
My way has become – not mud! idiots! – but wet utilizable clay;
I forget again, each road sign I chew like a lotus,
And lay me down, no fuss about the lack of pay –
At this elevation, only marmots can ask me for rent.

I think I’ve achieved something, not a poem about Everest,
Was it only three thousand feet? I convince myself of success,
What little I can do with a rusty bicycle, some reason to act all righteous,
Clean up in my tiny corner my own self-fulfilling mess,
Stay up here not as a mystic or guru, more like a social hermit,
I’ll never tell people why it’s not completely wise to eat pig meat,
I’ll just act according to modern liberal guilt, did I do it alone?
I find love only be keeping my travel plans flexible,
I change a broken civilization only by writing secret sad songs –
I am elected vice-president! I procreate ten thousand firstborn sons!
American Literature has left desolate all sincerity, but it’s thought of some great puns.
One poet is king but I am the silent prophet of the Saracen.
I’ll repeat myself until I am remembered,
I’ll shut this closet door & transcend irony.