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by Dick Bentley There are countries of the spirit, Where the villages are lit by torches And the bears weigh 700 pounds. The clocks are sad And strike the wrong hours While park benches are as empty as the sky. The tyrannical government Lies about the weather, Lies about the sun, moon, stars, Sex and the mists off the river. The streets are named Liberation Avenue, Redemptioin Boulevard, and Square of The Sixteenth of January. This is the world we ran to from the world While storms of cursing exiles fled the other way And a father loomed above us all --- Loomed like a mountain range. A Carpathian father ready to drink the blood of humans. Seeking counsel I ask, "Can my father really Be mastered through The interpretation of dreams?" The therapist replies, "According to Cornell Medical School's Malaise Inventory, someone who is disturbed May also have a genuine complaint." The doctor has a pleasant if inexpressive face And a disarming manner. You can see A fine lucid intelligence in his eyes "You must be very confused," the doctor says. You nod. "How lonely it must be having your condition. How baffling and troublesome and unfair." You bow your head silently in acknowledgment. Like most educated people, You are conversant with the basic Tenets of the therapeutic relationship, Issues of transference and counter-transference And so forth, So you do not wish to acknowledge The fact that you wish with all your heart To embrace the man, to clamber up The cliffs of his soaring Carpathian lap, And remain there Until you are healed. Copyright 2010. All rights reserved.
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