Chakra #6

In your screaming ultraviolet brain
The messenger of the bad moon comes down
Says, “Little babe, you’re in retrograde!
What happened to you? When did you get so old?”

In your young bride’s face, you memorize her soul like no one should have to
While you know it starts snowing soon
And the Series is won
But you won’t see the score

Twisted up like wraiths in the throat of the morning
The redolence of gloom in unfamiliar rooms

My brother rests off the factory line
In the pre-dawn fires of middle age
Rituals of solipsistic doom/
I wish I were a faith healer

Blisteringly paced, without any warning
Astral tripping slow/
I wonder if you know:
Do vultures sing?
What color is God?
I’ve forgotten

But brother, rest your blood
Your wars are won