The Mother Who Sits In Her Room

The tired have come to provoke you, the wretched to hold flame to your feet. Because the mindless who eat and say as they’re told are huddled behind walls of clean paint -the small and the useless, the contrived and the meaningless: materialists, socialists, capitalists, activists -the miniature millions will never wade through the seas, step foot over mountains or take breaths of the clouds. The poor and the wealthy, the sick and the full; psychopaths and senators and marketers and mayors, the milliards who take root in their homes. They’re brain stems and heart valves and television sets. Day beds. Glossy heroes of a comic-strip made for Netflix. Settle for the simple, settle for the ease, settle for the –Why bother speaking? Why bother to move? Born and bred a common simpleton among the banners of better ideas. Flower in a forest; gem in a coal pit; a spark of sanity in a swirl of fury and blindness –Who am I to move a finger? Who am I to lift an eye? Who are they to come forth? Born of love and hot fire, and here you sit as the days pass, no room to stand, no room to grow. Not as though you haven’t tried, down highways chasing forests and cities, harmonica hymns and the soulful echoes of howling desert nights. Music for every mote of your being. These are the stories you trace down a maternal line: muskets on hillsides, blood in the rivers and wheat in the fields, hum of a factory morning; rise of iron and city traffic; a poem chalked on a marching street. Money and car wrecks and instant communication and a generation of soul found in sadness. And you still haven’t located your way. Stifled into hiding, faint shame that you have relented. The madness of participating in the senseless and vain! Eat your Cheerios from a beer bowl and masturbate alone. Find your reflection in the mildewed wall and cry, cry sweet Lazarus, on a carpet crusted in waste. For you’ve been to the schoolyard, libraries and great halls and you have seen the settled dust on your dreams: you found your complacency, locked in a room with no view of horizons, and you have now joined it in place. And the mad and pathetic now push on your shoulders and shout (and arouse your sweet ear) “Rise today, brave colossus, before it is too late!”

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