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Lucidity, blinking and broken
Declares his life a night,
a forgotten dimension.
So fast, where
Did it go?
He is still outside
The forest of human
Following the script
Of human hand
That began in sand and
A hand that sent him to war
To the hearts of those
Who would wash his sluggish body
Wrinkled, tissue depleted
Immobilized by an angry destiny
And landscapes of untold design
And still he wonders why –
The three letter
Through the looking-glass question
Whose answer awaits in the forest
Where the path – trodden slight –
Will call – he is moving there
To that forest where flowering
Dogwood bloom in wait
For his steps light and inoffensive
A child in this fractal world
Enfolding unto himself the same
As we’ve always known
Even as he is resorbed
By nature – that path
He will trod, swaddled in linen
Looking ahead in painless
who have taken God from her forest
taken her and clothed
her in items of your choosing
Jewels and houses she would eschew.
Put a gun in her hand put her sons
in foreign lands – all
In the name of her father.
You, who have twisted her words
to create the leviathan called
You, who walk the street undercover of pinstripes and attaché and
a business card for proof, and privilege.
You, who cannot judge the passing smell oozing
(a fragrance?) from the carcass of your dying civilization
Yet you judge.
For someone has sallied the rope
Spanning the crevasse between man and the super man.
Someone knows that side of the swampy abyss and
You, making it yours with every sweep of arm and voice.
You, who strive to be occupied with life’s banquet
As you jockey for position and invent
determining closeness to your God.
Surprise! When the female of the species,
with her patterned wings, rises from the swamp and
with nothing more than her sense organs
drives you back to the craggy edges of your success.
It is she (not you) who will enact the inevitable:
extinction through natural selection.
She worries not.
Moving from host to host she will
ensure that you and your super-kindred,
in attending this banquet,
sit and starve.
Of weather searching for the signature
correcting for the miasma
of the crooked wind season
folding in on time
The supreme seer
picking apart the covenant
between nature and that
hollow heart of hope
Warmth is king
the predictor wears the crown
to the end of the world
like a preacher
From the forests
setting her up
in a house of his own
The diviner daring
with warm words
Scattering tepid halos
upon the heads of