The Snake That Won’t Die
What would the villagers do if the spirit that gave them spirit was suddenly let go, freed into the wilderness of the chaotic and anonymous life that he had once led? Whose voice would they listen to at the grocery? Whose lines would they draw on a blank sheet? Whose madness would they rely on to organize their chaos? Who body would they feed upon when theirs was unmanageable? Whose intelligence would they use to liberate themselves from the chains of societal norms and mundane assumptions? Whose language would they use to speak with a tongue that senses what other tongues cannot?
Does it matter to the villagers that the snake’s story is not their own body’s story? Does it matter that the voice they trust and emulate is merely making shit up as he goes along? Does it matter that the snake would lie to save his own skin? Does it matter that the snake was meant to slither and never to walk upright? Does it matter that the snake will never be a liberated human?
No.
What matters to the villagers is the cool feeling of this snake. The power of this snake to charm. The ability of this snake to shed skin and to renew itself. How the villagers long for these qualities. The continuation of the parlor tricks that conjure the snake are more important than the manifestation of the villagers’ own authentic and homespun spirits and realities.
The villagers urge the snake to continue being a snake, even when the snake is on the verge of shedding its forked-tongue past and transforming into an honest future.
As long as the villagers love the snake, so will humans suffer their own enslavement.
The Liar In The Smoke
The infection that spreads in the bong of a fool
One head to another
Arbitrary rules
Corrupt the minds of those
That tool around
With cruel muzzles and
Broken timepieces found.
When breathing in
The hot fumes that alter
Heads can travel
Into helmets that bow down
Necks bent
To queens underground
Who falter
When speaking true.
Beware who you give your chest to.
Here, Silence
The slow mind
Not speaking in fast time
Imposed
Its superimposition
On the hummingbird’s throat
Giving the small vessel
It’s heavy
But steady speech
As if covered in glue
the little bird sunk quickly
toward the ground
and fell on a flower
that was waiting to
catch her
and lull her to sleep
with its scent
The noise of her wings
stilled
created a silence
long sought by he
with the sensitive ear
Those that fed
and were fed by
the hummingbird’s quick mind
who watched her dance
in the garden
and were amused
searched for her
and hoped to
remove her from that
sticky flower
The one who cherishes stillness
watched
as the tiny creature
was devoured by the flower
and transformed
into
a creature that the stillness
could love
When the hummingbird awoke
she tried to beat her wings
but they weren’t there
and neither was her sweet
featherweight body
that had been the color of
many jewels
She couldn’t know
what she had become
but simply had to
be it
Such is life.
Keeping My
There is a rarified air—
One we all wish was more common—
Where the birds
Who sing clear
Make the sound of traffic
Harmonic
In the stillness of order
I hear the hush
Of a silence
Profound and melodic
Without the violence of thought—
A shield
From the misery
Of a battle eternal fought—
Shifting plates, tectonic
A longness of a constant stream
Floating on butterfly wings
A whisper of gentle things
Wanting to be done
While the neediness for all else
Goes to a background
Where urgency melts
Into a warm yawn
Here, the beating
Of an anxious heart
Is submerged,
Exchanged for a sensual feeling,
Inviting ears to enjoy
And eyes to wander without seeing
Tasting the colors around instead
A gift of witnessing the beauty in a single moment dead
And birthing another
This air is mine
Because I longed for it
I cherished it
I yearned for its return
And when it is here
I know it is my true love
And a balm for what is burned.
To cast away
This air of peace—
This air of utter surrender—
Would be to throw out
Myself.
In this way
I keep My.