Electric Hipster (06-16-1988)

Every so often I arise from my midnight slumber and gaze upon the lifeless world and wait for the morning dew to dance against the leaves I, quietly ponder your journey, Jesus, The heart & tenderness of life who pours love over this sorrowful sphere of souls. And when the sunrise kisses the sky and meets the vast canvas with fluorescent splashes of love I know it's you. When I watch the violets violently push their way through the soil searching for your light I feel as if I'm looking into a mirror. I missed the days of your prestigious youth as you 'born by a river in a lil' tent'- and we should have known then that 'A change was gonna come'. Before long you were walking the roads of Jerusalem healing the sick, raising the dead as beams of his fathers light fell upon his head. I missed the day John dipped his gracious head and his spirit fled into the immense depths cascading along towards the pure stream of infinite life. Far below your rightful place you performed the great hymn of love, blowing peaceful choruses to your orchestra of twelve. Here, There & Everywhere people of all walks of life heard about this man spreading love and bliss but I guess it just wasn't enough, as he was betrayed by a kiss. And in the night this man was moaning, in the night the ground was groaning, in the night the price was paid, yet after the night the world would be saved. So the next morning he had awoken aware of what the judge had spoken, beaten with massive blood loss, his fate to die on the cross! So he had to die for our sins as he dangled on the cross like hair does a bobby pin. And I can Imagine upon his last breath we were given our first, an eternal quench of our daily thirst. So he had to renounce his earthly home as his spirit fled to his heavenly throne. His death was for us, for our cycle of life to continue, even nature is engulfed into his plan, just like the silent trees cradle the songbird God cradles man. Jack Kerouac spoke to me one night subterranean beatnik poet; glowing, illuminated prose set from the tip of his ink glaring off of the ruffled, dusty beat book and he said Ryan... 'Man loves in lilly's and lives in milk and in his milk he lives in creamy emptiness'- (yeah, I hear you jack) - So I ask when will man, like a young calf feeding from his mother, draw from your word which is filled with immense light and creamy fulfillment. This word was put here to illuminate our souls so we can rise boundlessly from the prison of hate to the freedom of love.. Is it too late... and when the Storms sing, and floods us all will we stand there and moan, frozen in spirit? ...when we see him sounding the horizon with flames in his eyes will we give him holy redemption? When the sky cracks against the dismal night, and his hand stretched out, like it always was from the beginning, will your heart finally become welcoming? When the world begins to tremble will we do the same and make the mistake and feel we are dismissed from the betrayal of our own kiss. I feel like we are weighed down under a tomb of ignorance and have fallen from our mothers womb, punished by doubt, that gloomy bird that strikes us with his wings and pushes us further into dark sands of eternity. Now, I am not saying that I am completely free from the ignorance...for at times I've turned the blinds on his light, in fright that I was in the wrong place as darkness shadowed my weary face. I felt like the vulture standing over a dead carcass, thinking, maybe this doesn't belong to me, maybe I shouldn't sink my teeth into his flesh.At times I would throw him a kiss into a pale ray just to say this is me, I wonder if you hear me, do you see? , your child so caught up in a crippling fear of expression, sitting here listening to the tick and the tock two sounds so prevalent to a sheep out of flock, yet all the while waiting patiently like a boat at the dock sitting here waiting for you to release my anchor and allow this ramblin' mind to tread along the rippling waters of your spirit. Bob Dylan - prophet of captivating thought once said: 'He not busy being born is busy dying'- (Yeah, I hear you Dylan) but I say that the conductor of our life drives a slow train and he's waiting for you to dropp your luggage and only then can you hear his train-a -comin'. And since that morning after listening to the rain and melancholy sounds of John Coltrane I realized that I must acknowledge him, pursue him, and come to a resolution that he truly is a perfect being our one and only love supreme. So, I lastly say to you, beautiful lost souls of undeveloped spirit- Love is the source of your being, so unlock the chains to your sunflower, gypsy soul. Why go through this life crawling, slinking, and uncertain like a fuzzy caterpillar morph into that beautiful butterfly that you and I know we all are, spread your wings and fly. Set yourself free from the decaying flesh of man and woman who suffer your radiant thoughts, thoughts so deeply seeped into the lamb yet due to the ill's of society become slaughtered like the pig in the farm-green, cool, spring- wind. Never mind the words of man rather the words of the lamb.