Call Time: Eternity

Call Time: Eternity

it is certain that you saw the painted bird

inside the tortured remnants of your mind

flying back to its flock as it escaped

the coloring of the rednecked brush strokes

only to be ravaged to death by its own flock

driven into a mad frenzy of jealousy and fear

the bright colors of ornamental ignorance

a death sentence for a bird bent on survival

fighting for freedom in flight from reality

flying right into its own doom

like a jewish boy in poland

taking communion as an altar boy

to avoid the one way train ride

just to come out of hiding

just to be

as hated by the communists

who toppled the german terror train

you escaped like young polanski

into a world that allowed you to create

the upper east side raconteur persona

so coveted by anyone who was ever left standing

in the cold winter barricade outside studio 54

you just missed the blades of manson's gang

you warmed the couch of johnny and ed

you wore accolades like gilded laurels

until

the echoing voice of the villagers

that felt the exploitative pull of your words

that questioned your commitment to craft

that wanted to pull you asunder for your

upper manhattan means and ways

as your tousled hair rained ambiguous drops of sweat

on private onassis beaches and exclusive polo fields

your statues were all torn down by academy police

and reporter alike as you reviled the world with

the idea that it all came from your mind

without the veneer of righteous autobiography

much like the imprisoned marquis

as any reader who read it was exposed as

an erotic sado-masochist unbeknownst

to their own hearts desires

you silenced yourself like an ex-patriot in hiding

leaving one last puzzle piece that didn't quite fit

going to one last party to mingle

telling one last story before

collecting your wife and your coat

bidding the hostess good night

drawing a bath when you returned home

climbing into the water after writing your note

that I will plagiarize here:

"I am going to put myself to sleep now

for a bit longer than usual.

Call the time Eternity."

then the hated liar who told a good story

wrote the most darkest recesses of his soul away

to a world that turned against him

pulled the plastic bag around his head

breathing in all his carbon dioxide critics

falling asleep in the bath

without ever addressing

their criticisms

to any satisfaction

but his own