A house so perfect
so solid and cool, stands surrounded by a garden
all trees and shrubs and insects
to play with.
The house stands empty.
Nothing goes on in there.
There’s no-one to see.
But outside are birds and butterflies
And hedgehogs and bees.
Worms race each other, snails breathe.
Lizards dash under rocks, kitties snooze in the heat.
In the distance there are woods, or volcanoes, or deserts.
Or sporting clubs with rich trainees.
Dark cut cypresses are great to hide in,
and see what goes on in the field.
Small wildish horses are tied up
for me to study and explore.
The house is big, and solid, and always empty.
Echoing my thoughts and my dreams.
I spoke to myself, or so I say now.
I spoke to God, is what I knew then.
Nobody told me about him, nobody told me he was a he.
He was cool and understanding and he listened
He knew I liked books and I liked melodic music
He didn’t tease me when I danced.
He may have been an invisible man
A fantasy from the vaults
He reassured me even when
I never really wished for anything.
I didn’t know what to wish for.
I didn’t know what I missed.
I played a trick when I was in bed.
My hand pointed at a star, if I woke up still pointing,
I got my wish.
I never did.
I don’t remember my wish.
I had an idea about Man
I thought we were noble, and grand.
I thought of the Incas, of the Mayans.
I even thought of the Romans, and then
People were shabby
People want small, small things.
Money and sex and just to get on by.
They pay little attention around them.
It passes them by.
Rush rush from one day to the next.
Then forget what you sought, did you ever search?
Did you ever stop and think, and contemplate?
Is it just me?
I understand those who leave for an isolated place.
Is it necessary to leave?
Can there be no communion without isolation?
Surely they contradict, surely that’s what you mean?
Small communion, basic trust, basic companionship, small talk, surface love.
Life is bigger.
Man is bigger.
I don’t care if I say Man instead of Humanity, or Man and Woman. I don’t care about politically correct.
They are just words, what’s the substance?
If you care about one thing, you probably don’t care about a thousand more.
I care about everything.
It is difficult to live like that.
Because so few actually care it cannot all be on me, and the very few others who care.
I cut everything out, retire, close doors.
Protect myself from the yearning for caring.
For the yelling I hear from so many.
They cry: hear me!!!!
But nobody listens?
Very few, very few. Normally in sectors.
The homeless sector cares about the homeless.
The animal sector cares about animals.
(Oh yes they cry too.)
The artist sector cares about the arts.
Need I go on.
I care about everything. It doesn’t work.
And I care about nothing.
Nothing most care about.
The everyday thing. The superficial thing. The top thing. The surface. The fun.
I care less and less and less. I care less and less for anything that is not true.
Bring truth and we can talk.
Bring just a little, in your pocket.
Bring lots and we will know, whether I can help you or not.
And whether you can help me, or not.
I got some truth in my pocket.
In my pocket there is a house.
The house is solid, sturdy, empty.
There are echoes of dreams in that house.
The house in my pocket is surrounded by an endless garden.
Full of bees and beetles and lizards and warm dirt.
Would you like some of my truth?