January 17, 2017

scapegoating with psilocybin and a merry murder of tipped uteri ...



photographer unknown 

I kept on dreaming 
moss on her southern end 
'tween where the boughs 
bent lentils sent sea shells 
to smooth their teeth in time 
ebb sand and direction flow 
crows know to go anywhere 
on March 3 in the northern hemisphere 
a milliard eyes upon them as prognosticators 

sow seeded Maternalia 
hail regales to Mother(s) 
great and small
lover nurse warrior and tutor 
what suits Her here 
is my substrate surrender 
and the near never ending supply 
of hope held high 
in a cynical adult 
inner child's eyes 

for the third temple 
cannot be built 
without blood sacrifice 

and in this driven by 
parsed infinities world, 
we have imprisoned 

every womb 
we pray to 
we bow to 

wind to fog 
lantern to vague recollection 
we want the power 
to come from an outside agency 
even though 
we seek to find 
it in ourselves 
when we think no one 
is looking 
someone (ourselves) 
is ALWAYS LOOKING 

the third temple 
cannot be built 
without blood sacrifice 

what if you only had 
half the book 
of knowledge 
but were convinced 
you could wing 
and prayer it 
the rest of the way 

you are going to need 
the strongest of us 
you are going to need 
the brightest of us 
you are going to need 
the most committed of us 
you are going to need 

women 

there can be no cherubim 
with human and lion half faces 
in places between palms 
there can be no blade to the throat 
of our own thirst we command 
into the outstretched trembling throat 
]of a work animal we put in our place 

what race of beings 
looms without regard 
for entertaining 
any thoughts outside 
selfish intent  
watchers not 
for they kept in check 
what could be used 
as nefarious magic 
perhaps there is that 
in the hinterlands 
what the Sun dares 
not to trace itself against 
fingering the dark where 
there are others who befit 
the formless roles of shadows ...

and though shadows know 
they cannot carry the loot 
without hands and feet 
this is where we come in 
slaves and working animals 
upright laborers for the portal transfer fees 
from this inter-dimensional "banking" cabal ...

wake up AMerica it's a white noise world 
and sometimes the best angels make you feel icky 
and have dirty faces and take you to places 
you might not otherwise want to go to 

yes I find myself drumming 
outside another Jericho again 
though this time 
I feed soup to all 
and give drink too 
for I cannot find in myself 
not to give to my enemies as well 
as those that dare Love me 

Life an area 
to be carpeted by Love 
what does a rug 
know to cover  ...

it doesn't 
it only knows 
how to fly ...


EJR ©

7 comments:

  1. This is a masterpiece, Edward. I was completely mesmerized throughout the entire reading.

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    Replies
    1. One lucid utterance ... Thank You ...

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    2. I'm sorry. I know how you hate that. I'll try to ramble-jamble up some deeper nonsense for you next time.

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    3. actually I rather liked what you said ... and going back to read it for the first time as a piece ... I got to see and feel I managed to capture a quiet and certain lilting tarantella like hypnotic rhythm ... zoetropic ... So Thank You was appropriate ... No hate here ... though I am beginning to become more comfortable with deserved compliments ... : ^ )

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    4. That makes me so happy. You are an incredible poet. I think you know that. You should, anyway. :)

      Also, I miss your kitchen --- you made me feel like I was sitting at the table, watching you cook. I miss hearing about all your ingredients and how you prepared dishes for your family. That, too, was incredible poetry. Field of blue flowers and all.

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    5. That made me cry ... I miss my kitchen too ... <3

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    6. I know you do, sweetie. I know it hurts.

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