How Psychic Angels Talk
© Surazeus
2026 08 18

The peaceful loneliness of the sidewalk,
where I wander between asphalt and grass,
reveals to me how psychic angels talk
when they calculate our terrestrial mass,
so I visit Emily in her yard
where she grins and deals the Magician card.

Strange blueness of the midafternoon sky,
that glows behind web of telephone lines,
explains futility for asking why
death occurs in this world no God designs,
since Jesus tells me no one is up there,
so we must show the living that we care.

Grim grayness of the town-connecting street,
that tricks me to go anywhere I want,
extracts despair from my heart with each beat
which powers angel wings I dare to flaunt,
but I cannot fly, so I journey on,
strumming guitar as the national pawn.

Indifferent angst of sunrays in glass doors,
exposing vanity of daily work,
tricks me to find salvation in bookstores
where prophets without holy books still lurk,
but when I visit his still-empty tomb
Zeus tries to sell me riddles that spell doom.

Since Jesus has been dead two thousand years
our personal relationship is stalled,
so his granddaughter cleans the world with tears
when she appoints me as her castle skald
to sing of Mermaid and her Holy Grail
who dwells in haven of the mountain vale.

Proud dignity of the telephone pole
provides new framework for our old world view
that every human has appointed role
to kill each other over what is true,
so I must deconstruct class privilege
when I rebuild United Nations bridge.

Locked doors of houses in suburban zones
discuss catastrophe of being alive,
so I sell Bibles forged from dragon bones
to save family photos on the hard drive
as puzzle pieces in tale of our state
fractured in church gangs by greed-driven hate.

Strange quietness of wind on the bare hill
drives me to stack stones in heavenly wall
by adjusting duty based on free will
while I sell apples in the market stall,
till Emily steps from carriage of faith
and asks if I have seen the Cosmic Wraith.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2026/08/…

Orpheus visits Emily Dickinson in the afternoon where she serves tea and cake in the yard to her other visitors Hades and Persephone, her best friend since childhood.

#Poetry #Poem #Pastoral #Necropastoral #MetaModernism #Transrealism #NewSublimity #NewRomanticism #AmericanDream #Cinemism #Existentialism #Surrealism #NegativeCapability #NewGnosticism #MetaRealism #NewTranscendentalism #Astarism