Hyperion in the Fern Garden of Never

Dream Hyperion, I would take that job at the aquarium!

The sound of the Garden came softly in chords –

The height and veins, blemishes and tragedies,

All in remembrances long past from the season of accuracy.

I’ve known the windows at the edge of this sanity,

Have looked into the glass and seen stormy clouds

With lawn chairs on their hills and ferns in their valleys.

And did I crawl through the window to sit on the chairs,

Or to crawl in the ferns, to bear with me now?

I don’t know. I couldn't tell you.

But where the fern valley moves is where I goes,

Where the stars, in the woods, are made into ice cream

With kaleidoscopic cataclysm in the fourth degree,

The fern valley is where I goes to be free.

Don’t freeze, Hyperion, know thy word!

And speak it well!

All the world crumbles

So where else can you stand?

Hold on to me flaming moon, let me down lightly

Or never throw me away – never.

I do not wish to consort with the criminals, the aborted babies

Broken into stem cell cigarettes without approval from Congress,

But can I have what I need? I’ll have what I need, nothing more, nothing more.

Never, never, never, never, never.

To the tune of the witless General I shall have my day, Hyperion!

No? Never? Shall I never have my day?

Why do the important things wander while the trivial stay?

We are all the myrmidons

Swinging at the tendons,,

Swapping sweat for the bucket,

We are weird beyond ourselves,

Finding the last to be never

And never to be always.

We cry out ‘Sanctuary!’

And never get it, we never do.

Find my foot, sad king, and I’ll show you how to walk –

Away from Cordelia, those losses so dear.

I cannot draw a cart, nor eat dried oats,

But the way can be made for a fresher start in today

Where all things become new

Can I smell those grasses too?

The Garden is my answer; the window is my sword.

The sinking my defense and silence is my word.

Upon the rack of this tough world we are stretched

To the limit of all plausible points as they converge

Into one infinite spasm called death and no return.

But the fantasy of music and song continues

And the parade marches on to celebrate the scalps we collect from dust.

And so Dream Hyperion, I would take that job at the aquarium.