EARTHBOUND ANGELS# 6 NOT A PROPHET OR A MISUNDERSTOOD Messiah

PAINTING BY JOAN MIRO "LADDERS CROSS THE BLUE SKY IN A WHEEL OF FIRE"
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PAINTING BY JOAN MIRO(1893-1983) "DOG BARKING AT THE MOON"
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PAINTING BY JOAN MIRO(1893-1983) "WOMAN IN FRONT OF THE SUN"
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PAINTING BY JOAN MIRO(1893-1983) "THE VILLAGE OF PARDES"
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Anyway here is the poem Not A Prophet from my series of

poems entitled EARTHBOUND ANGELS:

EARTHBOUND ANGELS
# 6 NOT A PROPHET OR A MISUNDERSTOOD
MESSIAH
edited 1/11/02


Awakened from narcotic induced sleep
hearing a voice reciting 'Kubla Khan'
over the telephone the poet behind the poem
says he'll not return to this city
to this half-baked Bohemian scene
he's off to other parts Paris or Madrid
or no place in particular
leaving behind his winter of solitude
& discontent to reinvent himself
he says he's not who they say he is
remembered in a long black trench coat
hiding a large hunting knife
within easy reach if needed
knowing if needed he would't hesitate
wears black steel-toed army surplus boots
claiming to be ex-military gives
instructions in the use of fire-arms
travels in underground circles
of the shadowy demi-world of drug-pushers
prostitutes & pimps old winos
teenage runaways homeless the centre
for them did not hold
some wear a dozen layers of clothes
their worldly goods stuffed in plastic
garbage bags they drag along
in shopping carts
some write & sell poems sing songs
play guitars trumpets alto-sax
conga drums in front of stores banks
caf‚s libraries & bars for change
to make ends meet some hold out a hand
just stand & wait being obedient citizens

Remembered perched on chairs
in bars a praying-mantis
choosing a woman for the night
these women taken in by his boyish charm
& his sad eyes of a romantic
& an outcast living on the edge
close to the ground
those college girls just looking
needing to go slumming
before they settle down in safe suburbia-

Remembered bumming cigarettes & beers
from friends convincing them
to take him out for supper
besides he'd say " they need the company "
running madly up & down streets
his coat becoming a rising cape
going from bar to bar
dragging along his entourage
later at " Last Call " bopping around
working the crowd
searching for free-wheeling all-night parties
some sweet weed shrooms to share
talking wildly left unquenched-

Remembered walking along the Harbour-Front
of that old historic city
sitting on a quay sharing a joint
just before dawn
his short stories & poems & novels
talked about endlessly
not quite finished barely started-

On the phone says he no longer finds solace
in the ghosts of romance
still he had his part to play
acting so cool so nonchalant
the nights of debauchery
bathing his brain in drugs & alcohol
entertaining his friends with tales
of his nightly adventures-

Remembered calling himself a Pagan praying
to Norse Gods Oden Thor & Frea
to trees & the sea & sky
casting runestones teaching neo-phytes
a misunderstood Messiah-

Now each notch upon his belt
an invisible scar on his back
a reminder of the soul-mate he lost
no longer Master of the Game
new born desires overwhelm him
with a bit of bravado gets through each day
scoffs at his own blind innocence
scoffs at those who wish to follow
in his shoes sending his regards
to former friends in the City
the telephone goes dead -

All these misunderstood Messiahs
sad angst-ridden fallen angels
turning quirky ego-trips
into Holy Dogma turned inside out
dharma bent to suit a corrupted soul
hiding behind masks of Innocence-

So bye for now,
GORD