the human fantasy

και εγώ, το όνειρο


oh.

the tendrils
with a tight tight embrace.
small things stare (forget their blood)
with wonder at the smiling unreal-
outstretched, unrejectable-
and thank them for being
and save the receipt
and count your blessings with your change.

Come here, my child, and touch this weathered face
that watches you and knows your every thought
since first you breathed. And when you leave this place -
depart the alien things your kind have wrought -
you’ll find without them what you truly sought.
And you will weep. With knees in dampened earth,
with water in your eyes, with heartstrings caught
and torn; I spill your artificial blood,
and from your death, draw life. Your salty flood,
so welcomed by the parched and barren ground,
renews the earth. You churn it into mud,
a chance for other things. I turn around
to realize the sun has set on me -
the night, alive with death, my legacy.

The Human rose. It stared into the night
Past the hardness
And it dreamt as though it remembered me
Back when we were one
When I caught it by surprised and sometimes hurt it
(But – always – loved it.
Mine.)

I am the snake who squeezes you too
hard. Who loves you like disease do.
Until his love drinks in your breath
and tips the waiter with your death.

From me to you and back again
(the distance never changes)
From here to the woods
and back to the dream
Projected on a billion billion minds
We are the stars of the silver-sky fantasy
That so few can see;
The meaning is lost on me.

You may search very hard for me;
push and pull and tear up the grass,
as though your roots are there, too,
sleeping away amidst the june bugs,
waiting to wake with the seasons
and eat them raw
as my heart is raw
and eats away at me
like the days devour the seasons.
I wish to die amongst the grass
become one with the bugs;
they would welcome me to.
And they would welcome you, too,
since your heart is just as raw
and just as open to the bugs
as it is to me.
So join me in the grass,
and we will waste away the seasons
the repetitive seasons.
Let me know if you want to,
and you may join me in my bed of grass
where we can kiss our mouths raw
and I can hold you to me
with our audience of bugs
and we will sleep away the seasons
just you and me
and the others too.
The weather will rub our skin raw
and so will the churlish grass
the secretive grass.
You may eat my insides raw
and act like it has nothing to
do with me
and hide what’s left of me in the grass.
I will preach to the bugs.
I will skin the seasons raw.

It is the war of the elements, now
And creation is losing against my creation.