Whispers of Mad Gods

A poem.

Something whispers softly,
into my left ear:
Mist God words
to a lost traveler.
It says: “Just go.”
Birds chat incessantly
under the flaming sun,
while I’m standing
on this highway; lost,
unsure where to go.

Going to work to pay
for the gas to get there,
I thought to make a normal life.
Dogs barked warnings
at my car, uncatchable;
with me, entombed inside.
And an old man at the gas station,
the one with water
on his brain, once told me
“It’s serious.”
His wife just nodded,
sipped coffee,
as he fished for a drill
from the bed of a
rusted-out Chevy.

I could walk off
into the trees,
that distance —
all forgotten:
highway to repetition,
soul-less drivers, these
tired and feckless
“American Dreams”
that shackle
and shame me.

They wait:
Pan, for instance,
or Bacchus.
Great and towering
dancing deities, determined
to stomp out Shiva-rhythms;
those beings who’ve never
known leaden weight,
or the agony of decay;
as each round, hourglass,
sand-streaming moment
falls, and is lost forever.

Other gods. Mad gods.
Needing more followers,
they wait for me.
Somewhere
over that next hill.

It whispers softly again:
“Come away.”
As flowers watch
birds who sing arias
to the kind lords
of the wind.

And all the Earth dances.

I could go.

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