From Here on High


Burlesque vaudeville had nothing but some glitz
Compared to the spinning golden wheels of my time
That they call benefit of progress in their minds.
So many people have never been so eager
To take off all their clothes for others to look at
So many body parts prodded and scourged
For the stealthy pleasures of their lonely neighbours,
Afraid to venture out for fear of their own wits.

Something will ring and sing in the head like a chime
And compel the hands to open the window blinds,
And they will soon see there a man called Pete Seeger
Holding an old banjo and wearing an old hat,
Pretending that he's never been beaten or purged
By sullen youth and poets, to tell what he harbours
Behind the iron will to do good if it fits
The self styled themes and schemes to combat petty crime.

Twisted rocks will run down to the sea and all kinds
Of drunken bardic rants and fiddles will figure
In the scenes that I once imagined as I sat
Trying to warm a spark hidden when in he surged
Saying he would rather crawl the ground on all fours
If it meant taking care of all the little bits
Of the tweedle dee and tweedle dum for a dime
Since in these, drudgery and dust are all he finds.

So who cares if he was not such a great singer
And many howled from holy here on high and spat
Straight into microphones as little brain cells merged
And boiled the human soul into tiny vapours
Some strange energy making certain no one sits
Just believing that someone young is in his prime
Uncaring about what looking into the sun blinds
So desperate may be the collective hunger.

One can't really worry when one goes out to bat
Not really knowing how the variants may have verged
In the minds of the mystics while the crowd pours
Out the vehemence of its ribald pride as he hits
The little red ball like he was dancing a mime
Of his own strange fate to which his loyalty binds
Feeling that while he's not getting any younger
Maybe he's getting too old for this tit for tat.

It's not as if at any time he was not urged
Nor was he prone to the temptation of detours,
Nor did he somehow feel susceptible to twits
And he knew about parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme
And loose soft cambric shirts made with a thread that winds
The seam tightly to withstand the thrust of anger
When without a cause to defend it happened that
Into a narrow path adversaries converged.

The path to goodness passes through many arbours
Testing the mettle of those whom the gate admits
Those who fail the journey turn into a slick slime
And seep back into the thick mud of earthly kinds
Once again to place blame and to point the finger
At those who just want to stay on a simple mat
Rather than to see their lively senses submerged
Under the blind regimen of needless labours.

I would like to know for what the tapestry knits
From here on high if not to lift up our spirits.

Bevagna, 19 5 2009