W. Jason Mashak on the Other Side of the
BROOK BABBLES NOT
Great Rumble I felt! and heard non-discreetly as eyes
of sparkle -- depths transcended -- looked out from
anguish's shadow. Next increased a prodigious form ...
greasy hair, unkempt feet and beard ... possible scent of patchouli.
Emerged from rubble on chromed source of great rumble,
shook the ground with a Mid-Western hog, the thief from the cross
in sidecar beside him, sweet flattop guitar in his lap ....
In circles they rode, the thief solid strumming,
while Christ belted out with great soul:
The thief on the cross kept hustlin'
but he was all right in the end ...
I exchanged telepathic with my Lord well-known questions,
above all most important, "Why didst Thou not tell us?"
He forgave my faith lacking with Mid-Eastern smile pure,
then handed me fliers for art shows and 'zines I'd avoided.
Words did appear on the backside of one as I read:
The Who tried to tell you ... and the Beatles and Dylan ...
the Stones were all right -- but immortalized My villain
with sympathy, a perspective I've mostly departed.
And one wish did He give me, from airbrushed fury's saddle,
spoke wheels, thousand horses, square lights ... and no helmet.
I thought for a moment that I wanted one like it,
His steed so righteous and free, so full of hope
and vibrations -- like me. 'Til I thought of my conscience
and all that is in it, wondering how could I add
crimes such as believing I could be any way equal to Him.
So my one wish I made, for the sake of loving grace,
was for all to understand one language again, to speak all and every
variance of tongues, to know that most morals came about
from translations so deceptively roguish, unilateral ... nefarious.
Just then I awakened from imagery incredibly retained
to the sound of early birds chirping, smell of dark bean
brewing, and the brook ... I could understand all that it babbled.
© Copyright W. Jason Mashak 2002