Junk Man

In a dream I dreamt that was no dream
In a sleep I slept that was no sleep
I met the junkman in his scattered yard

There in a twilight of talk my ears stared
At the wag of his broken jaw
As he ranted over the rule of ruin
And within my rusting headpiece
Here where all metals turn inward
I eyed his arguments as a bargain of beads
Strung on the grieving yesterdays
And the junkman's words circled about my befree brain
Like crippled wings on the broken bird
No real flight in it

Come hold hands with me
In this stagger of dark
And watch the junkman inventory his rust
Trace with the green of our togethered intelligence
The ragpicker counting his twisted treasures
Here in this jumble of jungle
Where all smiles must leap down

Don't leave go of my hand

Look how the madman of discard walks
Through the low forest of his possessions
There he stops and with his practiced junkman's appraisal
Measures the meanness in the meaning
Of a bent frame of some lost courage
Now his awful laughter beginning
He counts a stack of odd-shaped fears
And considers with his cash-register eyes
The price they'll bring

When some young thing, you or me
Or anyone somewhat free

Happens to come here to build on these grotesque grounds

Don't be afraid
But don't leave go of my hands
I am no braver than you
We need our need of needing each other
And more
We need our need of not needing each other

Now, while the junkman is busy in his countinghouse
Now, while the king of unkindness tells lies to himself
In a devalue of value
Help me in this crowded air of broken wings
Write melodies we can whistle against the dark

Yes, now when the junkman has made a yard
Of so many millions who have been disinherited
From their inheritors

You and I will begin again the beginning
That will never end
We will mix ourselves together
And throw our togetherness down
To make the junkyard green
With our cunning of caring

Then in some tomorrow's tomorrow on other wings

Other wings will know that flight can be mended
And that the junkman who wants his books in the black
In a profit of no profit
The cheater of the cheated
Will make his idiot inventory against other eyes
With the difference
Our having given ourselves to his junkyard
Will give love the sanction
And his now-great greatness will sound with noise
In that then

And there will be no weeping
As the junkman lies weak on the memory of his bad bed

Look, even now as we hold hands separately
The crimson edge cuts across our silhouettes
Don't leave go of my hand

It will be morning soon
And we can look at each other unafraid
And in that morning we will laugh until the tears run
As we listen to the children of our children's children
Sing the many-melodied one song
The junkman will be there with them
But only in the black of their unremembered dreams
Look, the grey twilight of morning creases the edge of the east
It's almost time to wake up
But don't leave go of my hand