Trees In My Head
Submitted by Anonymous on October 15, 2007 - 2:00am.
in
by john cordero
photo by david franusich
Lying lucid flying on my freedom
buds of orange take me there again
My harbor hideout saves us heathens
from the punishments of mortal men
Withdraw wisely from the mundane embrace
to the field of open minds
Where people ponder exclusively to erase
all they have learned in time
Follow the feral footsteps
Release the routine race
Seize back stark simplicity
Grow your genuine face
Confused conviction leaking from my lips
roots of trees are now my body's veins
A bush for brains behind skin bricks
lie inside the dirt contained
Bounteous bodies turned into vacant vessels
for the conquering of the soul
Seeds are scattered which wildly wrestles
against the body whole
Create confusion in the core
Dire demand makes eyes dim
Knock down what we've known
By those backings only we begin
O cease! must hate and death return?
Cease! must men kill and die?
Cease! drain not to its dregs the urn
Of bitter prophecy!
The world is weary of the past--
O might it die or rest at last!
-- in other words, the angel of Shelley walks backward into the tar pits while calling to stop the world (I want to get off) of harsh knowledge, conflict, time. This is the sentimental pursuit of the "oceanic feeling," which despite its overt denial of death is actually its worship as the return of the real. The cessation of desire is death: one can pray the world's satisfaction, one's own or (most often) the simultaneous extinction of both. ("You and the lion die as one.") The narcotic error of hyphenate "buddhists" and other sterile grafts. As this is fundamentally a "feeling," science, properly applied, is a cure. There are of course other routes to the real, and in the meantime we want and keep on wanting, painful though it may be, until we stop.
— R.S. Martin
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