Needlsong

Oh sweet song
   silver sliver
sliding into softness
   skin 
yielding to glory

junk, you must be joking
this was it, It, IT!
THE FUCKING REAL THING

no endless drawn out lies
or dialogue of the self-deceived
seeking forlornly for what was had

when in possession
that inconvenience, cash
in back pocket, meaning food
clothing of a kind, shelter
in the eye of the cool, calm storm
releasing peace from the earth

but living not on their tired planet
money is good for one thing only,
a hit bringing journeys not here,
but there and everywhere, at once
nothing and everything

seemingly a pauper, 
really a king
seeing what can’t be seen
without heroic vision
talk much cheaper, never as good
this dreamy deliverance 
   down
      razing all paler comparisons
in a strung-out symphony
surging, swirling, sounding sweet.