Rebels with a cause///Jim Morrison

 

Sometimes, I hum a few notes
for nostalgia—
(when no one’s around…)

I figure I’m old enough, now
to be unrecognizable
(I just wanted to hear the cars hiss by my window…)
so I get daring
(sometimes)
and tip back my hat from my weather-worn face
when the tourists come.

Cameras froze me in time
(and her, too….)
and that’s how the world remembers us—
not like the grandparents we are, now.
(the world, the world—I really didn’t want it, “now”….)

You see, we live right over there
and I’ve been the groundskeeper here,
at Pere LaChaise
for the longest time, now—
now, now, what is now?
(It wasn’t the end…and I had to stop being the one,
the rider on the storms…I just couldn’t do it anymore.)

Quiet, Parisian breezes are all I’ve ever needed
as I tidy up the grounds
(a simple life, and moonlight drives…)
I’ll tell you something, but
you must keep it to yourself:

We’re still alive, and we pulled it off,
those “deaths”….and you know us, now
as Doug and Susan Rising
(Mojo was no good, but middle names, were…)

After I finish cutting the grass, I’ll go collect it all,
the things they leave—
(I’ve got more trinkets on my “grave” than Jack Kerouac…)
Someday, my grandchildren will find it
in the attic boxes, and know—
(who we really are…. still Jim and Pamela at heart….)


Well, I must be going now—
it’s almost time for Sunday dinner, and
the whole family is coming over.
(She’s cooked up a grand meal, my Pamela…)

And I can’t wait to see everyone—
I’m so glad I met you, today, too;
take care now, until next time….

 
Custodian of stone smooth alabaster bone
Down foamy chasms carved in Indian stone
Rafts stitched with stars weed whiskey that roam
Wild unknown pyramids cone apex soul flown

Dig the immortal broken eggshell scream
Twist turn philosophy into drug fuelled dreams
Mind rivers flow ancient gleam of bright moons
You swooned died too soon dark Parisian room

Death of Orion's snake --  
rise then we die together  
writhing in blackness.  
The hunt is on --  
our eyes see beyond  
ephemeral vision.  
We are the seekers  
of what is not human;  
we are the plunderers of  
her dear soul.  

Taste the tears;  
you are the salt of every  
pit on vitreous earth.  
You are a vessel of  
Night's captive stars  
searching under  
all the ones we lost  
up there, our subjects bare  
in coldest Heaven where  
every sun is undone there.  
 
A child is crying --  
it is your forgotten true vision  
which calls to be heard;  
listen for its birthing,  
lead yourself on a quest.  
You will find her there --  
iron-clad woman whom you  
desire.  
 
You will remove her chains  
to free her, but not before  
she disperses into  
silver forest air --  
the very vapor you breathe  
to imbibe knowing;  
her strength.  
 
She knows you --  
shaman son of great  
green temple woman;  
you enter into her  
city's languid heat  
and are born.  
 
              .....