Angel of Deceit
From strange soil, a song of home
The ancestral hand of some silver spirit In dollars, dollars, quarters and dimes Proclaimed on this night my kingdom Numbered, measured, and lacking. Into a cavernous wild fled I, Forsaking the clangs of falling pans. He brought me out, With no silver nor gold, But plastic and paper, Without lifting my hat Or shaking the dust off my feet, No moment to leaven my dough. In fear and in trembling Have legacies branched, Like that of Noah Avinu Who made no attempt To bargain or plead for the sparing Of lives of his neighbors, As did his Lot, grandchild of capture, Whose son-in-law named him steppe jester. Abram Spelunker found blessing For spitting into the abyss: "Could fifty saints stay Outstretched arm and strong hand?" Yes, I submitted my petition, Invoking the musical martyr, the maiden, On behalf of a brother, a friend. Isn't fifty rather high? What of forty-five? Of thirty? But the mountains will not be commanded. Again comes the sin of Jonah Nevi, As destruction forestalled From Nineveh's skies; All that darkened for him Was a cold, dusty patch Beneath his Kikayon tree. The prophet's dark artwork Leaned far past the ledge Into the long night of doom. When continuity shone through Mercy's morning, Was he not stuck in the quiet, By Babylon's banks of Tigris Creek? Could Joppa ever return to him now? There are no true lessons in exile, Only wrinkles and gray cynicism. Lies lead one out, And lies keep one fed; Even songbirds lie up to clear skies. Cast your fortune with whomever thou wilt, But if, as the night stretches cold, you abscond As Destiny opens her hymnbook, Your way will converge with a cobbler of yore, Who wanders alone to the end of the age, Each prayer contradicting one prayed before. For all who seek to save their lives And fail to wait for their redemption Will burn their charoset and curse their manna, Their cave of resting known by none, Their lies gesticulating on the wall With silver fingers of dread, Pointing withered descendants To finish that trek Down the long, rocky road Deep into the skull. Their indentured old sons, Like dim specters of fathers, Begging the winds for forgiveness.
