The Wheatfields East of Eden

The illegitimate son’s, who sat,
himself a thousand goals to prove,
they didn’t adopt a fool;
who now with letters tries to hide,
what lives outside the dressed up rhyme,
where the real world lay.
Where nothing special ever happened,
no prophet had to say,
nothing poetic, or profound;
a woman sleeping by the lamp,
smiling without a sound.

With the blankets folded, in their drawers,
her life's purposed planned—
off to sleep she goes, and smiles,
and peaceful cups her hands.
Asleep before the loser with his pen,
who stumbled in the room,
to beg for pills, so not to feel,
too much pain to sleep.
Instead to find his Dorothy,
so deserving now at peace.
A completed crossword, in her lap,
by a dusty bulb, to see,
the last word written in the blocks—
was thirty-nine across,
a six letter scribbled word, almost.

That was the key, that moment there,
that unlocked a door inside my mind.
I walk inside, and there I find,
King Oedipus Rex,
whose subtle complex,
in the Throne of all my Misery sat.
Made once the bastard child, who fell,
prideful in the arms of hell.
And like them lived, as lice to feed.
Giving fancy to his shame,
and insecurities;
in one breath, my mind at rest,
bye go my ego games.
There I attended, and awoke,
before Dorothy who had not spoke;
Then after that, I grew to be,
a bodhisattva wannabe—
who in his meditations knows,
the meaning of the word almost.

Then for a moment, standing there,
I no longer had a care;
the strings of life for me aligned,
and for a moment, the divine,
put her holy lips on mine.
And all my life,
my wrong, my right,
flooded my eyes the color white.
Nirvana drowned which once was fire,
and my anxieties expired.

And all questions,
for which no answer came,
under a carpet labeled God,
I swept them all away.
There went the question—
why need to know?
Outside of time I seemed to go.
If I saw God, I’m sure I’d say,
“Thank you, God, for that one day,
when what you did, or said, for me,
was, “Let there be a Dorothy.”
Or if I spoke to Christ,
I think that I would say,
“Better luck next time, my friend,”
smile, and go my way.

9: If only there I could remain,
and never again, see, hear, or say,
the normal things of every day;
I'd have nothing left to say.
But who am I to say, who sees,
his shadow on the page.
If only in Nirvana I remained,
and never saw the problems of our day,
I’d have nothing left to say—
no more misery to sell,
and no more stories left to tell.

But who am I to say, who sees,
the sky a picture on the page for me;
something whose existence,
translated with my pen—
misery to beauty, so others get to see,
not as it is, as it's described,
the things I see with my mind's eye—
And if they can't, let them prescribe,
a contact lens to see things clear,
as stoic as they are, so they can see,
that which is too beautiful for words.
Not through the windows with eyelashes,
but with the eye, that looks inside,
themselves and in there find,
what it is inside the shell,
a fragment of the universal self.

Would all our happiness compel,
the self our tragedies to tell?
The story of these beings who,
lived on this dot, pale liquid blue,
marble in rotation, around a candle light.
In what note could we for God remind,
the fondness we express for those our kind?

A fondness for our own kind we relive,
a brief excursion, caught in time,
between eternal states.
This too is a word almost,
to describe what can't be seen—
not in reality or dreams.
Serene and tranquil sings the void;
no taxes, death, or bills to pay,
no telemarketers or days.
Just that high pitched ringing noise,
made when our ear cells die, and then,
becomes a sound not heard again.