The Rip Post


Do You Remember Your Old Tricks?
Do you remember
all your old tricks,
the bargaining,
the faith,
the pain?

Now you are
marching again
to oblivion
and you call it
truth and shout
hurrah until
it echoes
round the moon.

As always,
on the edge,
looking east,
across the vale
to the dawn,
chuckling
all the while
at some private
joke between
you -- and who?
God, or Kerouac
or some other
crazy creator
of blizzards,
hurricanes
of words.

Dear boy,
rest your
priestly bones
and cast
the rest of
your fate
to the
winds,
to the stars
as aspera,
aspiration
only -- no
consternation,
explanations
or revelations.

Can you live
without that,
without revelations?
Are you a junkie
of the cosmic news
that can be read
and told only
by your own
sweet heart?

Can't you just
let it be?
Why must you
stir the pot?
Can't you just
prowl the
streets or
growl among
the sheets
of pslamist's
verses?

Why is revealed
truth such a
curse to you?
Why have you
no blessing
at this late date
to bestow upon
this world,
your soul's home?

Would your blood
curdle if you
put a smile on
your face
and made the
old paradise
not such a
lost fool's place?

You know you'd
like to live there,
heart of home.
You know you'd
stay to here,
hearth and home.

Warmth and caring,
trust and delight,
comfort and ease.
What a blessed sight!

Drive out the demons
and curse
the bloody angels
out of heaven.

Invite the mice
and vermin
to break your
bread and fill
your head
with truth
and verse,
so all souls
might journey
with joy
upon this
Earth.

---Jack Oakes

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