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February 26, 2012

‘Til the Dancers Come Home. {Poem} ~ Charles C. Fields

(Photo: Pinterest)

Who is patrolling the depths of the great minds

of our twenty-first century?

How furious are the gods
That all our loves
Have gone to shit?

That our analog hearts
Beat digital rhythm?

We are the children
Who can’t sleep before Christmas;

We are gypsy souls

Wandering over cobblestones

Sleeping like witch doctors

And dreaming like deities do.

A hypnotist, an alchemist,

Like science versus magic

Where we are ecstatic and terrified

At the same time.

This is where I live,
This is what it feels like:
All alone.

In the garden, was Christ’s moment.

(That part of the story is perfect)

The weight of mistake

Is the heaviest stone.

The smart ones wait

‘Til the dancers come home.

 

~

Editor: Kate Bartolotta.

 

 

 

Charles C. Fields is the son of a Pirate and a Roller Derby Queen. He is a lover of Chartreuse, Tom Waits, Nikola Tesla, slow food, fast women and long walks to nowhere in particular. Charles has been known to howl at the moon and is afraid of carnies. He is one quarter Choctaw, one quarter Croatian, one quarter Wildebeest and one-hundred percent Irish. He makes art on the page, with his paints, behind the bar, with his guitar and on his skin. His debut album Neptune is forthcoming in Spring 2012. You can connect with Charles on Facebook.

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