August 2000
Letter 27
Night
is the true democracy
-
Edward J. Wheeler
Night
the equator
between
hemispheres.
Realities.
Night
the revelation
of the Dogon.
The Iriquois.
Night
the
needed vacation
from blur state
realities.
Distractions.
Who
in need of suffering
this holy hr?
Who
recycles dream fragments
from
the dust bin
of living
the skeletons
aging
as the story goes on.
There are no more maps,
no more creeds, no more philosophies.
From here on in the directions
come straight from the divine.
Your cell. Your self.
Who has plotted this prison
has tangled in emotional
stew, who delivers the
antidote?
Who brought the dark
as briar patch, not
the mask of fat
for somebody?
Who constructed the box
set
the playing field
of black plasma
&
imagination?
Who
sees the viscous
liquid through which
living is attempted
who
sequestered us from
the
certain play
the wealth
the healthy
alignment?
OH! if there is a
doctor in the house
I want an abuelita!
A yerba buena
an
antidote for the
somnambulistic
heresy
to be delivered
from.
OH! I've had my fill
of August
let
me
get my poems & leave
to step over the Slaughter
& resume the party
how easy.
Is this the gestation
or decay?
Fertilization
or response to the bodies
all over the dance floor
so grisly
they
shield them
from the white man's
view.
OH! Is this closer
to death
or
rebirth
always
seeking a sign
so
little
FAITH
these days.
So many numbers.
Fava bean blossoms
festoon the
Slaughter
August.
Cat paw prints
shape the raised
beds.
Still
the neighbor's junk
light
bright
as
a star
worthy
as illusion
blot
out
the Milky Way
w/ fear.
Fingernail marks
in
possessions.
Something
gone
awry.
How many times the humility
card called
how many times
ignored?
How many times
Los Antepasados
must drag us
through the clues
must the evidence
overwhelm
like the smell
of
restaurant
grease
in the downtown alley
?
How thin
to spread
the self
how soon
to begin
the cycle
anew
?
Quote from the Book of Runes - Ralph Blum
peN#992
3:33AM
8.27.00
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