Bohemian Rhapsody at an hour and twenty-nine
minutes
a glass door opens and I watch,
from inside,
poor Freddie die, slowwwww
wonder if that might've been a time
or a half time
when dreamed of crossing
roads or
ways or paths or circuits were fitted
with resisters
set to never disconnect from base.
Standing ready to resist,
sistere,
stood in the rain watching others die
for me,
via-curiously as all hell,
you can feel this guy falling, this is mazing
is there a way back out, if it were a movie and not
words
tickling or itching
***** little fruit flies shifting dna in every
imaginible way?
what if rock and roll were the lie,
all along? or what if
we confessed, these wee gods we made and
idolized, were
but are not, now they are lies that lived in stories
we can tell truer than hell
sistere, we stand
peace-keepers keeping on keeping
this thing that builds our dreams,
realistic, in a common
kind of sense. Always gentle,
honed-est to the finest edge
----
could Milton have seen this thing coming,
from all the stories he told,
I don't think so.
I dont' think,
so a
comma changes ever,
just like that,
this hapts to attempt morphic resonance as
easy on the ear
after a while
as the music Milton listened to
--- but it is not rock and roll
--- its self made hermetical art flowing through the canyon
remaining a scar to remind us all,
surely,
we live on the wreck of a world.
--- and Michael, my broken brother-in-law
shouts GAWDAMIMITALL!
whoa, I feel this tug to hug, very strange, but
I hug him and say
now is okeh, I don't say it's okeh because it is else when
now is okeh,
we deal with this,
every, asif ever, but not
but often enough that we settle things fast,
if, you know,
y' let go and let the power in us
be
believable. Try. No lies, starting now, stories we tell
must be defanged, declawed
but unchained. Free stories of told lies,
those are those words to the wise you heard of.
Never were secret stories,
always been secret lies about stories teaching when
truth, in the telling, tells us what not to do.
Don't lie and don't let lies be pre-sent in packages of
maliscious conscious opposition
supposed
to entertain us, ah that high whine in my left ear that peaks then
falls in to background
white noise
soft, occasional thunder way off, a siren, a jake brake blaring
far far away, a chainsaw, not obtrusive
subjected to the filters in place,
this is a fine day to remember.
Like one of those Septembers, we share at the mention.
Milton could never amuse his muse with a movie on a chromebook in the desert on a rainy day, while watching elders by a bit die by bits.
