December 26, 2012

addendum careening the rabbit hole junk drawer philosophy of hiding your sharps...

 art by Rene Magritte ©

spelunking santa singing bowled cold satan with saints of saturnalia

I see in Nazca lines
in tonic wines
in cocas and
Goddess flora
in a cola syrup
Germanic tribesman
beneath the great pines
stealing at an empty velvet
a Winter’s night
lifting skirted star shine
feeding a mushroom high

I see this welcoming everyone in
a way past crumble smiles of empires
a welcoming us to the occupied mind
a welcoming us to river gutted time and
the binds we find designed chains for

mediation, meditation, modernized
menial, mundane, morose
mean, median, mode
more, mania, manual
mode, median, mean
morose, mundane, menial
modernized, mediation, meditation

yes, we ride your bus
we feel the weight
of your world perspective
we hearken to barker as fools
in seas of humanity
we comfortably widen our eyes
to a blind bleed
we are Oedipus
we are Antigone
yes, you are on our shoulders
sometimes, we feel mortality
in our feet, pulling us down
we hear you encourage
us to blame everything
and nothing
staying in a misty stupor
inside pastoral blank paged
drunken homogenized
Charles Ponzi architectural gravy

the gravities
of our every 
withholds desire
to tongue portal
our remains

we live in the strange domains
of bend our knees
bow our heads
slurry handle the mud
slake the salts in rows
label them by powers
of preservation
and survival
know each earthen bane
that calls our name in quiet
rake formed and formless humanity
never forget the cradle
while at the grave
while striving for things
in and out of ringed common
worships and idolatries
watch the curbside swell
in our skeletal unwrap
see why the artists
must lie to love the truth
comb the oceans
burn with radiation
in the Sun’s encroach
be on the look out
crawling Braille
in the wet sand
for what Pandora’s
double helix fascination
had to do with answering and
asking the riddled corpses
for directions

our reverence for exits and
genetic obsolescence
is part organic machinery,
part plastic halo and 
part heart sometimes 
wired to feel sounds 
of communicating spirits
but never understanding them
despite our penchant
for writing in caves
with yellow #2 ‘s  
trying to understand how
eventually at the end
of nearly every song, 
story and poem
a simliar harmony
can be found

we are
trace minerals
waiting on Winter
for easy rain
knowing what matters
is only how much
light we’re willing
to bring
hand to mouth
then womb again

we are
the outside too
waiting on Winter
bearing arms
spines and 
all the perches 
of chances
all that we seed
to cover the need 
to begin the show again


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