Surreal expatriotism
Down by the jungle
Dwelling among cobblestone saints
Where the air plants live
on high flying wires
suspended in time
sharing space with
Second World Illusions
Listen silently to
Neighborhood Music
between the banana trees
throbbing acoustics
wobbling through
subconscious souls
Bringing them the
gauzy summer music magic
that makes the First World
Go Away
And in the Oasis the
pied piper plays, calling
postmodern refugees
Out of illusion,
And they come,
backpacks and snakeproof boots
instead of jalopies
instead of covered wagons
instead of papyrus rafts
instead of ships of fools
The piper plays his computer
singing of something/anything
different to the frenzied,
whistling a promise of adventure
to the traffic jammed
Strumming an invitation back
to another dimension
humming a suggestion that
Reality is Still Out There
Somewhere
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