I have something to declare!
I want to scream through customs
Rage, let fly
Against the wind
Against red tape
Smash glassed ceilings
Topple ivoried towers
And crash through invisible doors
To reveal my conceits
Like a grubby smuggler
A literary itinerant
Returning from the Orient
With opiates for the massed ranks
The crowning glory that lies
Au/gmented in their goldliness
I have no use for cleanliness
To desanitize and infect
Desensitize and distract
Defenestrate your catholic books of rules
As I slaughter your sacred cows
And all who follow
Disrupt and deconsecrate the doctrines of divine society
Genuflect before my mighty truths!
Revel, rejoice and reflect in my lustrous prose!
I will divide and undermine the ranks
And file unity within the masses
Expose the nakedness of Kings
Dispossess and disrobe them of their purpled lineage
Unwinding and hoisted by their own kushtis
Cast among Prince and swine alike
To stand upon the tallest mountain
Do I have the cojones?
Would you clutch your pearls?
As I announce myself unto your world.
Or maybe I should just murmur into a seashell
Her echoes rebounding eternally
And the wondering
Of a young girl upon a beach
In hushed and reverent tones
She will tell her mother:
“There’s a voice inside this shell.
She’s singing to me.
In echoes of hope.
Happiness and joy.
Of fear and freedom.
Sadness and revelation.
Deceptions, legends and myths.
Of every word ever uttered.
Or held forever.
In every tongue.”
A new mother’s first soothing words.
Breathed so reverently with primal love. And awe.
Simply spoken devotions.
Imperceptible to all but her new-born babe.
Swaddled and held close.
Her daughter’s first return.
Gurgling, smiling, gurning, babbling.
And the final testaments of the dying
The sadnesses of old men, with their pyrrhic histories
Buried so deep they have long been.
Claimed so far back as vainglorious victories
And only now understood in all their hubris.
Yet brilliant and dazzling in their revelations.
False idols worshipped. And slain.
And prophesies unwrit.
The finger’s twitch outlives the last breath. Of man.
Detached from pain.
Devoid of wit.
The final truth
Writ bold and painted black
Yielding to the fate of all fates
Unburdened and unbridled now
No longer straining
To inclines or the treacherous slopes
Of italics or speeches
Marked with ambiguity or sleight of tongue
Or cleverly twisting turn of phrase
Heaven bound, and heaven sent
Not from this earth asunder rent
One final speech
Before the gates
That lead Him home
At last to blessed Elysian Fields
Unguarded, next the shield
The sword returned to stone
The last to rest, is laid the pen
And sticks nor words
Will e’er return
To hurt again.
There can only be one King.
“I want to keep her, but I know she belongs right here.
For others to encounter,
interpret, discard and share.”
She says. “I
Have something to declare!
There’s a voice inside this shell.
If you hear it. And I hope you might.
Pause a while.
And feel the hope.
I think people pay more attention.
when you whisper.”