May 27, 2015

Edgar Cayce and the burning world of haint, paper and poem...

W. B. Griffin Photographic Collection, 1913-1979, University of Kentucky

Edgar Cayce and the burning world of haint, paper and poem

is our conscious state
mostly lying
are we a marionette-d
dormant infinity
drowning in white noise
enough to paint
black empty hearts
in echoed consumptible hues...

are our comforts and distractions
strings that gain traction and trust
must we believe in the state of humanity
can very well be in a land where
they seem only to be good
when mindless desire is sated
able to make everything seem like
it happens in control
when the whole thing
happens in the back of a bus...

ghosts drive the unseen
passages, messages
repeating our past vestiges
in radio frequency crackles
directions to insurrections
are misleading
and not necessarily accurate
and they only look like fun-houses
in fact, thieves of gold teeth live here
hot iron pressed automobile valets
willing themselves the squeeze
of divinity to be someone's piece without fear...

lords and ladies
the barker hearkens to the crowds
come hither with thy shady premises
and promises to be here near tonight
tack your dreams to open window sills
we are distilling your Canaan
in wishes and prayers
things you dare yourselves
to still be when it seems
it is okay to go inside somewhere
to be outside a need to be human again...

feed yourselves
to the Sun
and rain...
the clocks will explain
the carved barks of trees
you check every Spring
when you gather
what Winter
leaves you with
down by the river
year after year...

is what passes
for information necessity
an odd Baroque music
to dance with our monstrosity
muses the anchorman
signing off past midnight...

are reason and wonder
noose slipped products now...
shipped all over the world
twenty four hours a day
volleyed politics
valley-ed pontificates
padlocked eye scans
arrival and departure gates
chained funneled through inspections...

were you abroad with a fever
stay here keep away
don't realize there are
way too many of us
to keep this up at current levels
consumption is the whore here
and your life has landed
at her tipping point

storms and rakes and reasons why
we still try to love a little bit
every single time another day
and another poem, appears...

no one should ever have to grow up
having to know bad news yet to be,
seems like night to me though,
might this soul be haunted
by permanent smiles and open doors 
this seems right to me, how 'bout you...?


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