those roads come back
Posted: February 11th, 2012, 5:15 am
those roads come back
through the hole in my shoe
how far I walked in the soul
my heart like leaves drifting along
once in Mexico I heard the voids
opening in the midnight clock tower
on the bus on the way up the deep hills
I was reading Autumn of the Patriarch
before that Under the Volcano
and even before that Treasure of
Sierra Madre, by B Traven
who ever that really was...that famous
scene in the end with the gold dust
blowing in the breeze, the old man laughing
as the tapestry of snakes and deers
with yellow spiders in the middle weave
and rabbits running through magic wild
flowers, I see the year Pablo Neruda
left his residence on earth
I was a lost poet in used book stores
wandering the shelves of eternities
looking for the hidden words hiding
in books that once were read by you
in your travels down the shadow days
waiting at crossroads of cosmos & infinity
standing at the corner of empire & oblivion
watching the pages of great novels rain on
the gutters of best and the worst of times
reflecting spirals of birds up the golden tear
of the multitudes that were vomiting for Lorca
first time I read him a woman called gypsy
with shining green eyes behind long dark hair
mirrored my fate, as I read lines of verse
that showed me the curse of roses & moons
turning the language over in my unholy mind
until the sounds of the tongues made me bleed
from the core of my being, the truth I was seeing
through the hole in my shoe
how far I walked in the soul
my heart like leaves drifting along
once in Mexico I heard the voids
opening in the midnight clock tower
on the bus on the way up the deep hills
I was reading Autumn of the Patriarch
before that Under the Volcano
and even before that Treasure of
Sierra Madre, by B Traven
who ever that really was...that famous
scene in the end with the gold dust
blowing in the breeze, the old man laughing
as the tapestry of snakes and deers
with yellow spiders in the middle weave
and rabbits running through magic wild
flowers, I see the year Pablo Neruda
left his residence on earth
I was a lost poet in used book stores
wandering the shelves of eternities
looking for the hidden words hiding
in books that once were read by you
in your travels down the shadow days
waiting at crossroads of cosmos & infinity
standing at the corner of empire & oblivion
watching the pages of great novels rain on
the gutters of best and the worst of times
reflecting spirals of birds up the golden tear
of the multitudes that were vomiting for Lorca
first time I read him a woman called gypsy
with shining green eyes behind long dark hair
mirrored my fate, as I read lines of verse
that showed me the curse of roses & moons
turning the language over in my unholy mind
until the sounds of the tongues made me bleed
from the core of my being, the truth I was seeing
