Each day there was always the same old place.
After school up to the bend of the road,
Past the houses, where with cold beers in hand
They'd pass the smoke around and then wonder
"Who among us will climb the hanging tree?"
Each unafraid, waiting for the other.
And as the afternoon dimmed they remained,
With none disposed to climb the branches
To where the noose had been fastened and hung,
But rather in shadowy drift escaped,
And in a dizzy fantasy embraced
The youthful conceit of endless future.
By some potion, some herb, some little pill
Would they be favored from life's misfortunes.
If they could just dull their minds to realness
And pretend their world was not their parents,
For them there'd never be a hanging tree,
While each day they grew a little deader.
(the lover)
Shut behind her walls, unseen by all but
The mirror, she imagined alone all
That people do. Her life not at all what
She thought it would be. So regular, small
And lonely was she. And when the artist spoke
She pretended him as a kindred soul,
Who with his practiced lies could gently coax
her trust, even as her beliefs he stole.
"Why not" she said, like a small and spoiled child,
And conceited and vain he used this for
his confirmation, that all he reviled
Would but for her sake respect him the more.
And believing herself now to be free
She began her climb up the hanging tree
(the artist)
He caught a wave once
Thrust upwards towards the sun like
Driftwood
And mistook himself for the wind
Or a Phoenix risen from the ashpile
Of common experience.
And men in suits selling tickets
Worshiped him
And men selling magazines
Acclaimed him
And he believed the money and the praise
To be manifestly true,
And himself among the chosen few.
Then he called himself an Artist.
"The people love me, I am special", he supposed
"I have been given a great gift."
When he yearned, they cheered.
When he cursed, they cheered.
As he fouled and poisoned the earth,
The people thought themselves heard
Through the noise and the chaos,
Compelled by the machine of commerce which they
Embraced and dreaded,
And for which they knew nothing else.
But as soon as it came
The Wave was broken,
And the people found new distractions, and
The Artist was plagued of them.
"They no longer understand my art", he swore
And feigning indifference, he persisted.
Convinced that the money and fame would come again
And all the things spoken still true.
But as no one came
He sought new direction,
And the people now found him pretentious,
And though he thought great things
The people knew better than he
The insult of being pandered to
And the conceit of selfishness and fame.
So now the Artist, wounded and dangerous,
Found comfort in himself and satisfaction in
The destruction of others.
For all his invective and self-loathing,
He could not hide from the knowledge
That despite all of his creativity and Art
He had become obvious and dull,
And caught, like a scared cat,
Way up high in the hanging tree.
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