New Poem: 12/22/09 (Untilted)

Here stands
a 14-year-old boy
first souljacked into wonder
at the waterfall's pool
and spent 30 years
trying to translate the unspeakable
unlikely fusion of joy and terror
that kept his soul spinning
after everyone else around him
put their souls in Park,
in hock to a system
that revved their engines to the breaking
point, pointed
to a horizon they'd never reach,
and convinced them they were going
somewhere. here,
there is no quest to create a following,
the folly of a flock of sycophants
who really only want a slice
to fit into their pie-shaped
pinwheel grafts,
that would make the Mystery
a piecemeal thing, exchangeable
for something extra in the bank.
here stands
a culture, one foot in the cradle,
one foot in the grave,
pissing on everything in between,
libertyandjustice4all who
fall safely between its brackets,
pigeons so comfortable
in their pigeon holes
that falling outside the lines of the design
becomes a crime.
i want to be dangerous.
i want to be Grendel to the status quo.
i want what that 14-year-old edition of me
saw and heard so clearly,
an outsider invited to the inside
of a feast surpassing
anything the elite can create as a distraction.
tell me of this "real world"
tethered tightly to the mentronomes
and claustromethodical chronometers
where i can happily exist as "eccentric"
as long as i am "harmless,"
as long as i play by its rules;
telll me
that only fools believe there's
anything else,
that i'm jeopardizing my livelihood
by refusing to play the game . . .
i'll tell you of a wonder beyond myth
that mocks the feeble mathemanics
of monetary rule,
that "harmless eccentrics"
are like museum exhibits, animatronic wannabes
that only amuse,
that only fools would sacrifice
their liveliness
for something that cannot live at all . . .
yes, it makes one dangerous
to those who think they have it all
when they've never knelt
at t he waterfall
and found more joy
than their cupped hands could hold,
more Mystery than words
have ever told.