Observe, Observe
We, all, standing around
With wine and frowns (tools of the trade)
All standing our ground
Dressed in our Sunday best,
Intellectual black, and in the back of
Every black back pocket a
Popular poet paperback, thumbed and quoted with
Practiced indifference.
Jibbering and Jabbering over
Our shiny Xmas ornament
Revelations, awed by the truth of the day,
Happy in our flaky fellowship.
Oh rank conspiracy!
Would that I had never
Breathed your black garbed plague.
We are like initiates in some
Esoteric magic. Wizards of word
Grinding out poetic potions,
(They may dispel us yet),
Entrancing ourselves with our
Words, allegorical treasures,
Sweet triumphant finds after long
Impressive labor.
We preach the dream of the
Freedom serpent to the ears of the
Converted. No wonders there's this
Tradition of eccentricity to contend with.
The outside world sees us as a huddled
Pack involved in some strange, self-important task.
There is no purity in deliberate
Weirdness. And Man does not live by
Poetry alone. (There must also by prose
and work, and bread.)
Service to the Common Wealth.
We should just drop this
Fascistic emphasis on
Furious insight. The
Natural elements of the
"Mystic" remain untouched by "words".
I don't wish to enlighten in the
Usual "wow" sense of the word.
If you laugh you are more "lightened"
Than by all the lectures you have heard.
I don't want to be discussed and
argued about over tea.
To be sung while weeding the
Garden is high enough for me.
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