I hear Bowie flying off like a bluebird,
forever vogelfrei, leaves rustling
as the wind sighs heavily one last time.
Torn socks and boxers holding on in the corner
frantically surrounded by scribbly notes and dim oil canvases,
a wooden tribal mask and corporate contact cards:
magical portals to your past sentenced to dust
by the deep grim sea around, the bridges all out of reach.
Unaccessible memories like cement slowly encasing my feet,
the water lulling continuously ahead
as I wait - motionless - for the mafioso to push
but he never does
and the saxophone gives its last somber hurrah
and the madman stops singing
and I croak and cry and scream and stomp deliriously
shattering the case into a thousand dazzling pieces,
a blazen dance of anguish; the fire exit in reach,
the house might burn
but was I ever at home?
ashen ground like my freed feet, destruction
leading to liberation and creation;
the bridge now just a step ahead and
the still subjugation of the moment beaten:
a history to be conquered
and a future to be taken.
David you made it
and so did you Papa
and so will I
but until then
I’ll swim and burn and live to die.