My Life in Greece

I think it's funny -funny and sad - how chained we are to the social conventions of our day. As a pastor my life is a joke. The last shred of evidence that another way exists. But it doesn't exist here. Not yet anyway. This poem sucks, but I haven't figured out how to say it any better yet. So enjoy...


I sense their jeering,
as I dance my Jester dance.
They follow me, from a distance, peeking
Around corners and hanging from trees
A secret network of folly and conspiracy, secret only
from Me.

That they're all in on it is hardly the point -
They met again last night in the dark caves -
I dance, naked and twisting, twirling choreograhped to the sound
of Soul defined and defiled by hysterical
Fits - equal parts laughter and rage.
Eyes blind with wool, those Corinthian
Fools damned by days I'm not alive in.
But the language of yesterday is not my language, and I
Can not be its' minion. But whose eyes
are blind? The jesters or those who mock?