The Fools & Prophets of a Dying Town

Fools and prophets are often confused
And oftener still are one and the same

An analyst like you or me is no good,
No.

Unless, of course, we're fools.
Or prophets.
On the margins
Between blank space
And profit margins.
Fooling ourselves and some others

And tendering tent pegs for peg legs--
--'cuz, hey, life's too short.

We know that words go down like whiskey
They maybe make the stomach ache.
So we splash 'em around
This dying town.
Unless we sip for warmth.

But wind goes down like water
And so do fond embraces
Of prophets with painted faces
When the bowls tip out the rains.
And the insane complain that it's all too inane.
But let's be plain about what is and isn't vain.

I think we're doing okay.

Unless it's too late to learn to dance or prophecy

You're fooling me and I can see
  that it's time for you to leave
      this dying town.
On tires spinning 'round
Which drink your petrol down
And, sitting in your car, I wonder if we can really win the war.
You're fooling me, aren't you?

That's fine.
I'm not your prophet anyway.
Though I will keep trying.

It's time for you to leave this dying town
As the aging year lays its weary head down
And down dies the wind
Meaning to sink a little deeper next time.

And we can choke the season down
And splash it around
Like whiskey, wind, or water
Or the embraces of fools with yawning faces
When we leave this dying town.

 

(October 24, 2009)