Eric M. Petit
Rough and Rambling Travelers
You godlike priests of the earth, you wild and ragged, midnight wanderers,
You speakers of the minor courts of the major kingdoms, you sounders of hearts,
That paint the pictures of pain and write the poetry of blood upon bleached bones,
Stand up and take hold of your instruments, the great and silky curtains are drawing,
And the house is packed with the lost and lovesick, the heart sore and weary.
Rough and rambling travelers, sharpen your pencils, dip your pens in the ink.
The world has pulled your draft card and no longer is the any safe place.
This theater, this stage, this crowd of tough and humble losers, these penitents,
With beer on their breath and smoke in their hearts are all looking up with wet and watery eyes,
Waiting for the lights to come on, waiting for the music, waiting to see the show.
They came stumbling in from the back alleys, the projects, the high rises and cheap motels,
And it’s going to take so much more than ink, it’s going to take blood on the quills and fire in the bones.
They’re going to take it all, every last, damn drop, and they’re going to need it desperately too.
You sainted sinners, you childlike masters of your craft, you makers and molders,
Of such hard and smooth shapes, you vagrants and vandals of this bastard-bright, new age,
Get ready, because the word is out and the tickets are all sold. The lost and weary people,
Are coming to see what you’ve written on the walls, what you’ve spoken in the night,
And cried into the pages of your books, what you’ve created so furiously in the dark.
They’re coming with black eyes and bloody lips, they’re coming with empty pockets and open hands.
They’ve got a limp in their spirits and a rattle in the lungs but they’re coming just the same.
They’re damaged and dirty and trying hard to straighten fine ties and expensive suits.
There’s a hollow in the eyes you’re going to need to fix, a hunger in the belly and a thirst,
In the throat that could drink down whole rivers and every scrap of food will not fill.
Can you hear the rustle in the chairs from so many dry and withered souls?
It’s acres of dead grass out there and they’re going to need you to bring the rain.
Oh, you children of the lost and lonely earth, you wanderers of the dust of weary worlds,
Pick up your papers and paintings, pull out your bright spirits like sharp swords,
You warriors of the wounded planet, you actors upon this lonely stage,
It’s going to take everything and everyone, it’s going to take all of our dreams.
Eric. M Petit