The Piecemeal Man (abmann) wrote,
The Piecemeal Man

  • Mood:
  • Music:


Wading the river
it is not blocked it is the key to human survival. I am not human yet. I try and try,
but there is blockage. Time and space close around me - feed my trite phrases that would make Charlie blush. He is drunk again, a tirade of emotion like Pollock painting. Beat me, please, beat me. Let me know pain again
I am callous, vacuous in my dream. It is so withered in here where demons pile on one side
of a seesaw - children so evil that God won't touch them. Hounding me, pixies and fairies and the rushing continuum of tomorrow, receding before me. No one can face the future, the Greeks knew that. To face it is to fall away, tabula rasa before the track of quality and the dissolution of formal concepts.
With out my eyes there is no form, unity in Tunkashila, that we cannot prove exists. Faith is
no basis
for philosophy
for reason.
for me it is as it should be, lead on the path of wolf - he who seeks wolf - but acts the coyote.
Mato is crying in the corner, formal idea of the bear. Diliminator of life tracks
and vulgar functions of body. He carries me, the druid, into the woods to renée. A nymph will
take me up - hollow sexual advances on a plane, hallowed by mixed fluids. She places me in the tree, my tree standing on a knoll. Apples fall to an elephant that I tower over. He should be pink
but it is not his will nor should it be mine.
Lying on a table, surrounded by all these specters I am reborn at fourteen
and forgotten a day later when I return to a shrine of three stooges and a coddled bedroom.
It was so much bigger, before the princess of spirits took her staff,
made from vines and copper, away to a land of burnt rock and tall, majestic stones. You cannot big in these, they will not have it. The animals, she points to those by me - behind above and attacked to the truer self, will not allow it. You take and they take from you, in your sleep. As cats did before we stripped them of their myth,
their power in an undead world in the throes of creation. Kings of sand in the lands of burnt stone, diminishing edifices stand testament to the pursuits of man. Now, we are wining. Killing those things that we used to know. I, standing by a tree, ask Mato why she cries.
We all know. It is the death of the nymph, the tree, the myth that makes her weep a vale of tears.
Tears blind us, tears rip us apart and keep us from doing. being.
The art is looking beyond the veil,
understanding and standing next to that tree. give me the strength to build the burnt lands a new soil. Take her staff and restring it with music and integrate the new world into seeking wolf.
Climb the tree to eat the apple that has beckoned for eight years.

I am no longer afraid

This is a mouth full. From the age of fourteen I have been a shamanist and reiki practitioner. In the last year I have been having a crisis of belief, not knowing the metaphysics I believe anymore. This is pretty much the last eight years of spirituality and the last year of crisis mushed into a poetic stream-of-consciouness paste. As I becoming more of the person I want to be (see the first posts from my new journal starting in July) this crisis is reaching a breaking point. I'm not sure what sort of point, but intellectually I am arriving at some new "place."

This poem is ugly.
  • Post a new comment


    Anonymous comments are disabled in this journal

    default userpic

    Your reply will be screened

    Your IP address will be recorded