poem for jim morrison
Let the incantation begin,
Jim Morrison, original ghost killer
Black leather serpent sinner
Gasoline shaman, peyote-loaded shotgun
Whisky jester, carnivorous witch
Switchblade snarl, pallor of death
Convulsive, blindfolded rock vagrant
Stealing dreams from young women.
Jim, Venice is dying.
The tongue of the speculator licks down the marrow.
The soul of the city suffocates in
the sticky saliva of its corporate kiss.
Rats march down Abbot Kinney
with paint cans strapped to their spines
scurrying to the rhythms of consumerism.
Long gone is the oxygen kiss of jazz horns
the acid-fueled sunshine, the God-throb of ideas
the rule of love, the white knights of imagination
lighting fires with a burning piano.
Now, palm trees lean at the sun
like teetering matchsticks.
This once village of cobras is bloodless
and the fangs crumble in your hands.
But still some mercurial serpent
stalks the beaches at night,
and the waves, the waves,
crashing into the cymbals of the surf.
We’re all lost on the highway, Jim.
Searching for the crystal ship.
I see my name etched in granite
but the monument is virginal white
not some surrealist headstone
buried in flowers at the Père Lachaise
or scrawled in a jukebox of old legends
rusting in sawdust at Hinano’s Café.
I’ve seen men claw illusions in masks of loneliness. I’ve seen the women, carnivalesque, daring, aching. I’ve watched the crooked and tribal Hollywood dreams the blood ocean battlefields blinding all morality. Veterans eaten raw by your false flag father. Lemonade children seeking God in a rhyming television. Migrant souls burning in brushfires.
I drank whisky in the roadhouse,
kissed the woman, Los Angeles.
But today troubadours are shot on sight.
They’re living in the fear of possibility.
They’re calling to you, Oak Man!
Your seeds have taken root
but you’ll never meet your children,
savage, beautiful, writhing in young lust
and rebellion. Pretty, soft insects
with eyes like smoldering suns.
They laid him in the ground as the shaman spoke,
'He railed at the frost in the winter of zombies
his breath caught fire and became summer
his cries ripped a hole in heaven
letting in the wandering vagabonds
his blood grew mysterious red flowers
in Death’s lonely garden'.
Fly Jim, fly!
The Lords are at your heels!
Leap from your grave before they uproot you and call it a harvest!
From The Opulence Of Invention. Copyright © 2018 E. P. Mattson, All Rights Reserved.