Miracle Mile
King Mara’s back,
and dressed in black.
In a business suit and hat
alone he walks the Mile.
Whistling as he’s walking
Wearing such a charming smile.
Mara must be fed to live,
But he can’t feed himself.
He crawls inside our brains
and tells:
Feeding him is for ourselves.
We’re twisted and we’re warped,
he lied:
We’re born to rise and fall by pride—
Into a maze made by our mind,
left to find our way back home.
That could be King Mara’s song—
scattered people on the lawn.
Bow before the bottle, pray;
like birds of paradise—
Shrieking out their mating call,
so delicate, precise:
The Animals of the Earth pristine,
They roam the wilderness unseen,
Their tracks left in the snow;
Never has a human been,
To that place, nor have they seen,
What once lived long ago.
The obsolete, it makes me weep,
the things I've been, the things I’ve seen,
Yesterday was just a dream,
I must be someone else.
How much is a person worth,
Their strife, their happiness?
Their starry cars and dying houses
collapse into the ground around them.
In the tempest of the storm
the sun itself may be reborn.
From mother’s wrath we cannot hide,
Self sacrifice our alibi,
King Mara walks behind us,
And never does he rest,
like Oedipus Rex,
whose subtle complex,
In the throne of all our misery sat.
Life is a weekend in the rain;
And death is Monday—it’s a shame.
Don’t let the weekend slip away,
when Monday walks in all we lay,
in this world of ours to die.
Years from now will come the day,
when no one not a word can say,
when the body dies the essence flies
and gets scattered in the sky.
All we have is brief a time,
resting as our mother shines,
Miss Sol a dying star.
One day soon the sun will turn,
upon herself and earth will burn,
the lines of mountains like a scar.
The Earth adrift in open space,
rolling about with simple grace—
the moon follows from afar.
In Siberia the cold wind blows,
through the thickets and the foal,
the food is a mirage.
Through the deserts, and the snow,
migrating caribou they go—
the camels not far behind.
Across the river, ‘round the bind,
they eat from little piles of snow.
As nothing in the winter grows,
they long for warmth, for heat.
They march across the dunes of sand,
in their Pilgrims Caravan,
To a place they’ve never seen:
To a never-ending valley
of a water-color green.
And men they run in circles,
No idea where we go.
We try to find some meaning,
In life’s magic shadow show.
Desperate to fill that hole,
that anxiety bestows—
this generation's plague.
Where everything is meaningless
that is their disease.
Meaningless, to know it's so,
to know the Sun itself will go,
and become an unheard whisper in the dark,
the grand hoorah will be a blink,
amidst the black of space and shrink,
and disappear amongst the stars.
The disease infects all those who fret,
and rock silent on their bed,
for them there is no cure.
They never will get high enough,
And that at least is sure,
Never high enough to smile,
to walk with all the happy people
on the golden Miracle Mile.
The anxiety hole will still be there,
When Mara has you in his snare,
and sin your alibi.
Born with misplaced wires,
in our minds a software glitch;
there is no medicine for this,
and for it we will die:
A most peculiar mechanism,
the flaw deletes the organism.
Without a Heaven, or a God,
we live next-door to hell.
Plugged into some dream machine.
our fantasies rebel,
Like the seraphim who fell,
for pride,
those in their dingy houses lied,
watching a fan go ‘round and round,
smoking sticks and stems—
Every day the same game played;
no Miracle Mile for them.
They ache, they yearn, and justly dream,
On this King Mara loves to feed,
on fantasies of kings and queens,
upon a throne and looking down,
as the court jesters dance around—
their little toys, their little things,
if only happiness could bring,
itself to fruit upon the root,
of an adder bitten tree.
The dream dilutes the crown is gone,
and waking in that bad alone—
the morning sun rains down in beams.
Yesterday was just a dream.
There are those with defect parts,
Who can’t pull themselves together—
In Humpty Dumpty’s generation,
They stay broken forever.
With a job and normal life,
Everything will be alright—
We knew that was a lie.
I much prefer the word farewell,
and never wish to say good-bye.
And now we have our new machines,
So treat yourself just like a king,
And wear a Caesar’s crown,
welcome Bacchus into town,
to on the kingdom of the ants look down.
The kingdom lives in symmetry,
Precise in their geometry,
they’ll run themselves alone,
when our blood dries on the stone,
like all the others who have gone,
in picture frames upon the shelf,
their jail.
The man alone himself can’t help,
Spring them from their dusted cell,
But when the time comes he’ll kneel down,
And bow before the sleeping crowd
As his feet will fall the rose.
As the velvet curtains close.
and dressed in black.
In a business suit and hat
alone he walks the Mile.
Whistling as he’s walking
Wearing such a charming smile.
Mara must be fed to live,
But he can’t feed himself.
He crawls inside our brains
and tells:
Feeding him is for ourselves.
We’re twisted and we’re warped,
he lied:
We’re born to rise and fall by pride—
Into a maze made by our mind,
left to find our way back home.
That could be King Mara’s song—
scattered people on the lawn.
Bow before the bottle, pray;
like birds of paradise—
Shrieking out their mating call,
so delicate, precise:
The Animals of the Earth pristine,
They roam the wilderness unseen,
Their tracks left in the snow;
Never has a human been,
To that place, nor have they seen,
What once lived long ago.
The obsolete, it makes me weep,
the things I've been, the things I’ve seen,
Yesterday was just a dream,
I must be someone else.
How much is a person worth,
Their strife, their happiness?
Their starry cars and dying houses
collapse into the ground around them.
In the tempest of the storm
the sun itself may be reborn.
From mother’s wrath we cannot hide,
Self sacrifice our alibi,
King Mara walks behind us,
And never does he rest,
like Oedipus Rex,
whose subtle complex,
In the throne of all our misery sat.
Life is a weekend in the rain;
And death is Monday—it’s a shame.
Don’t let the weekend slip away,
when Monday walks in all we lay,
in this world of ours to die.
Years from now will come the day,
when no one not a word can say,
when the body dies the essence flies
and gets scattered in the sky.
All we have is brief a time,
resting as our mother shines,
Miss Sol a dying star.
One day soon the sun will turn,
upon herself and earth will burn,
the lines of mountains like a scar.
The Earth adrift in open space,
rolling about with simple grace—
the moon follows from afar.
In Siberia the cold wind blows,
through the thickets and the foal,
the food is a mirage.
Through the deserts, and the snow,
migrating caribou they go—
the camels not far behind.
Across the river, ‘round the bind,
they eat from little piles of snow.
As nothing in the winter grows,
they long for warmth, for heat.
They march across the dunes of sand,
in their Pilgrims Caravan,
To a place they’ve never seen:
To a never-ending valley
of a water-color green.
And men they run in circles,
No idea where we go.
We try to find some meaning,
In life’s magic shadow show.
Desperate to fill that hole,
that anxiety bestows—
this generation's plague.
Where everything is meaningless
that is their disease.
Meaningless, to know it's so,
to know the Sun itself will go,
and become an unheard whisper in the dark,
the grand hoorah will be a blink,
amidst the black of space and shrink,
and disappear amongst the stars.
The disease infects all those who fret,
and rock silent on their bed,
for them there is no cure.
They never will get high enough,
And that at least is sure,
Never high enough to smile,
to walk with all the happy people
on the golden Miracle Mile.
The anxiety hole will still be there,
When Mara has you in his snare,
and sin your alibi.
Born with misplaced wires,
in our minds a software glitch;
there is no medicine for this,
and for it we will die:
A most peculiar mechanism,
the flaw deletes the organism.
Without a Heaven, or a God,
we live next-door to hell.
Plugged into some dream machine.
our fantasies rebel,
Like the seraphim who fell,
for pride,
those in their dingy houses lied,
watching a fan go ‘round and round,
smoking sticks and stems—
Every day the same game played;
no Miracle Mile for them.
They ache, they yearn, and justly dream,
On this King Mara loves to feed,
on fantasies of kings and queens,
upon a throne and looking down,
as the court jesters dance around—
their little toys, their little things,
if only happiness could bring,
itself to fruit upon the root,
of an adder bitten tree.
The dream dilutes the crown is gone,
and waking in that bad alone—
the morning sun rains down in beams.
Yesterday was just a dream.
There are those with defect parts,
Who can’t pull themselves together—
In Humpty Dumpty’s generation,
They stay broken forever.
With a job and normal life,
Everything will be alright—
We knew that was a lie.
I much prefer the word farewell,
and never wish to say good-bye.
And now we have our new machines,
So treat yourself just like a king,
And wear a Caesar’s crown,
welcome Bacchus into town,
to on the kingdom of the ants look down.
The kingdom lives in symmetry,
Precise in their geometry,
they’ll run themselves alone,
when our blood dries on the stone,
like all the others who have gone,
in picture frames upon the shelf,
their jail.
The man alone himself can’t help,
Spring them from their dusted cell,
But when the time comes he’ll kneel down,
And bow before the sleeping crowd
As his feet will fall the rose.
As the velvet curtains close.