accepting ourselves the way we are
we yet find there’s no fixed coordinate
our consciousness can both rise and fall
and so it’s here that free will comes into play
which in turn requires us to quietly contemplate
the cause of movement of all thought and emotion
attempting to seduce our soul’s fickle attention
spoilt for choice and as master of ceremonies
we may choose any vibration by resonation
distilling it mindfully in the cauldron of love
that by doing so truth alone does prevail
What a privilege! What a treat!
My thumbs are thumbs-up thumbing
Because today, in “Cabaret,”
On stage was Alan Cumming.
Born to play this role as M.C.
Of the Kit Kat Klub,
If he were sick, I’d hate to be
The guy called in to sub.
From wicked grin to dimpled smirk
To knowing, coyish wink,
He let us in all on all the jokes,
Delighting in the kink.
Though “Cabaret” has been produced
For years on loads of stages,
I’m oh-so-lucky that I saw
The M.C. for the ages!
Part I.
In the heartland of that place called home
A figure sits alone in an empty chamber where
Cracked walls, like squinting wrinkles,
Hide silent hesitations of untold sorrows.
This is not a holy place,
Nor a room of peace nor prayer nor solitude-
An infinite stream of broken faces flash with eyes
Glaring on the bare walls,
A theatre of hell for a lonely stranger,
To contemplate crimes committed
Or those omitted
By the dirty hands of painter friends
Whose graffiti grows like prison ivy.
A red-eyed
Master of ceremonies,
Hidden someplace in the cracks,
Gleefully smacks with satisfaction
As the Munchian dreams stare
Into the hollow air, over and over,
Screaming in all their variation the subtle
Deceptions the facades of men wear.
This temple, whose gods long since fled into the shades,
Receives now only wordless souls,
Worldless men, whose being
Nobody knows nor sees nor cares
To see or know,
For they offer only better visions
Of one-eyed ghosts wandering by dark night
Searching for the one golden candle
Whose glow
Will flame the hope of light and set things right again.
Speak of 'death' and feel an ice-cold breeze
Sweep the grandest room of sound;
Even the master of ceremonies
Is cold and still.
Dwell in confessional catacombs
Repeating it over and over again:
Death!
Death!
Death!
Death has an infinite appetite
To swallow all moments in time.
The surge of a stampeding crowd
Crushes the drying unnoticed dead carcass
Of a hollowed out beetle on Mexican tiles.
The grip on life and death is strong.
(but life is a finite and sees - death is eternal and blind)
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