'Lennon, not the other one' timothy r g, 11/26/2007
a morning stroll come to an end,
both sons finally talking with dad;
'daddy's home, the monster's gone...
beautiful, beautiful little boy,'
being sung for the young one,
and the one near forgotten,
but not.
daddy does what daddy's done;
sad, tears came to theirs too,
didn't know what to do,
(all it takes, a violation of our own orphaned
nightmares) -
come out of the corner, stop rocking,
curled up in a ball,
look into their faces,
'it's my own.'
daddy does what daddy's done;
not this day,
now they sing together;
'working class hero is hard to be,'
when you're not in the working class;
still, we sing with him,
a 'revolution' is only 'imagined'
by those that do not see themselves
disconnected.
Lennon, not the other one,
like Elvis,
dead by another's fearful movements;
in this time and space,
both would be my daddy's and uncle's age;
schizophrenic 'warm gun,'
physician's pills,
both helped us sing,
thinking that their songs were ours.
They are.
Lennon, not the other one,
out for a morning stroll,
not a piped-piper, hypnotizing our steps;
imagine,
it's not yesterday; it's not tomorrow,
it's today.
a morning stroll come to an end,
both sons finally talking with dad;
'daddy's home, the monster's gone...
beautiful, beautiful little boy,'
being sung for the young one,
and the one near forgotten,
but not.
daddy does what daddy's done;
sad, tears came to theirs too,
didn't know what to do,
(all it takes, a violation of our own orphaned
nightmares) -
come out of the corner, stop rocking,
curled up in a ball,
look into their faces,
'it's my own.'
daddy does what daddy's done;
not this day,
now they sing together;
'working class hero is hard to be,'
when you're not in the working class;
still, we sing with him,
a 'revolution' is only 'imagined'
by those that do not see themselves
disconnected.
Lennon, not the other one,
like Elvis,
dead by another's fearful movements;
in this time and space,
both would be my daddy's and uncle's age;
schizophrenic 'warm gun,'
physician's pills,
both helped us sing,
thinking that their songs were ours.
They are.
Lennon, not the other one,
out for a morning stroll,
not a piped-piper, hypnotizing our steps;
imagine,
it's not yesterday; it's not tomorrow,
it's today.
VIEW 3 of 3 COMMENTS
The Pagans and Christians sat down to eat,
both pronouncing a Blessing,
while the Wicker people are outside awaiting their feast.
Here accused of being one or the other,
neither proud of their death in this way, protesting often till the end.
'You're a witch!' the crowds cried out.
'You're a cannibal!' yelled the audience.
'You're a spell caster!' their accusers spewed out against what they didn't understand.
'You sex-a-oholics!' came from an Aphrodite in the back of the room, praying
that the you heard them.
Both have played the faggots thrown into the bonfire.
You can be the feast
or you can feast,
both know the cycle well,
watching the thirteen Moons
sometimes pictured as stars,
set as a crown for the Mother of us all.
Pagans sit at their table,
coming from an altar of Blessing.
Christians sit at their table,
coming from their thanksgiving altar.
"My God's bigger than your God,' both yell,
each await a stream of fire from heaven to consume their gifts.
There are those who say that they have no God, as they look at themselves into a mirror.
Dog, the true one, being dyslexic, the heavenly means of reading literature,
chuckles at their fun, thinking,
'At least the Wicker folks have a clear focus.'
We could be their altar and food set for meat
If we don't devour each other first.
I pray that I would say, 'Fuck off,' to both,
knowing that the corner on the market actually belongs to someone else.
This I can do.
and for reading the words beyond the boobies!