The Love song of J Edgar Caballero
(To the bitter light shinning through M.E.)
And even though there is none to give
I still can’t help but hope there is
time for a revision and time for tea
time for you and some for me.
But the sea and the waves and the bitter light
have all blown further away, out of sight
out of mind, to a place far…far behind
the limits of my kind.
And yet on land I am not grounded
I am awash, drifting, bounded
by my thoughts and dreams
all yet unsounded, unfounded
and chemically confounded.
There is no cure nor remedy
I am my worst enemy.
This is me, unhappily me.
Anyone whoever hopes
Noone whichever will
accept him for the helpless man all day he wears.
But anyone cannot claim noone.
He wishes day by day, in between every way,
yet she remains the same
and I remain a vane
propelled by the wind,
broken by it’s whim.
And now time remains, my mortal friend and foe,
the hand of God for which there is no show.
I watch him take M.E., flow, Dream away, from myself
into the depths of liquid deep
out of me and out to sea.
Her seamaid dress of kelp
is all I have,
a meaningless judgment,
which I set before God
in undulating supplication
and palpitating meditation.
This phantom, washing himself with pride,
believes he will find
a corresponding path or stream or road
to follow, to pour out his blood, his life and soul
and for that to have some kind of overwhelming tone
resounding ring, and brilliant shine!
Such is my dream and if it be then let it be;
and if not, then not. But change me,
change me into something good,
something whole. Something should
be bold atop the waves
with sails all out screaming straight into the sun,
into the heart, into the very light of very light.
Above: the broken florid undulations of deep mystery,
the golden trusses of her hair,
the Salton brushes seeping wet,
the Cerulean notion in her stare,
the sweeping bristles green and flecked,
the jarring sea grasping me
down down and further down
Until my heart of pride and terror turns
Against the wave white squall.
Until the ointment of drunken love
Sinks the sea foam from withal.
Until my mind is put to peace,
Entwined with shells, a laurel wreath,
And writhing from the face of God
I worship ’til on toiling seas,
To ash my molten heart will burn
Until I seize my golden fleece.
Until the acrid moon unfurls her love
and shouts to me in waxing glory,
Her bending sickles compass come;
harvest tide from her Sun.
I will not give In
I will not give In
I give Up these last strands of man within.
I will swim the florid seas
I will drink down all its beaches
Till corral lips imbue my eyes
And the saffron surf outlives my reaches.
J. Alfred sink your torpid teeth in
and watch me sink myself thin.
Mount those tempests men!
Death is moot, Love is in… M.E.
Love is a short song and Long is forgetting
the way her hymns washed, converged and
slipped surreptitiously through my ogive netting.
Porous eyes on the horizon waiting and wetting.