There's A Land

There's a land, where the dead go on living;

and nobody knows, what's quite there;

there's a band that forever keeps giving,

there's a park, and a tree, and a bear.

There are voices and stalkers and dowager queens;

and Russians, and spiders, and Jews;

there are autumns, and evenings, and seasides, and innings;

but the gods of the place, they're not new.

They quarrel and they seek, they murder, they scowl;

they mention our names, through and through;

they petition, they speak, they fester, they reek;

they torment themselves, not just you.

The place that they're in — call it heaven or hell —

its doors only open at noon;

they take only losers, not beggars, nor choosers,

but they take all they can, all anew;

They take also survivors, and rapists, and porn stars;

and executive directors, by the pound;

they take the reporters, and early connivers; —

they take firetrucks and hospital beds, around.

This place that they're in, it has no doors,

only windows, and souls, and blessings — but enough said;

they give, then they holler; they scream; and they

stutter; something about our daily bread.

No one does answer; not one of them, has ears;

and if you've starved, you only go on, your second date;

you might meet a movie star, or a pope; or a monster;

the priest might even tell you, you're late.

So then you all have it — you're stuck, and

that's the secret — this monstrous, turbid thing, it is only you;

nobody answers, 'cuz it's not the right questions;

and when they're gone, they're just brought back, in two.

And how to get out, how to grow lucid? And how not to

avert your gaze? And how to grow lonely, and how

not to be tepid? And how to dampen the

madness, the craze?

Start by getting even; start by seeing slowly;

start by breathing into, your yarn; the faith that

they've pulled over your eyes; it's the face that

you wear, when you fawn.

Start by seeking, not an erstwhile companion;

start by finding the deepest you; forgive you

your sins, and your memories, and your deserts;

forgive them your whims — and we're through.

*

From "The Womb" by Daniel Viragh

All Rights Reserved.