Soon I shall leave California
with flowers in my beard
and a knife in my heart
having heard some siren song
in those redwood groves
and empty beaches:
some song beyond the vast rollers
where only the giant seals surf,
some song like a humming
of a million bees
or a whale's plunge:
some undone kundalini
yet to find a tightrope
fit for walking.
Had I been reborn
among the grateful dead
probably
I would be happier now
but instead
I have been remoulded
to a crystal heart
reflecting odd sunshines
healing only those who do not know
killing those zombie
aspects of the past
hanging like gaunt seabirds
rotting around my neck
making painful the sky
with old stars
among whom
this new comet sings.
Why now should the mocking bird
sing at night
tuning the soft silence
with a mellow flute
teasing my heart strings
with a mild refrain
reposeful yet
telling me of my pain ?
O quiet musician
voicing the doubts of lovers
take back your song :
leave the still night to do its work
in kindly yellow-eyed despairs,
those cold pianos
heard at great distances
along summer avenues
in quiet cities of the plain
A very long time ago