Children of the Wasteland

And every month I bleed out a piece of me
five days revelation of the seed of me
Bow my head to the moon and sing Glory B
flat the song of the black hole song in me
We are trees planted, skins of wood and souls that stretch
from below the world into the next
Electricity in our leaves, we bend magnetic, prophetic
talismans predicting the lowering and return of the sun
with every sapling spring bloom;

I see it in you–

the gold green shoots rising out of your fingertips
your lips spread like open flower beds
thirsty for the rain to come.

We are the forests that grow on the Sun.
We stood tall in Cydonia when Mars was a blue planet
our multitude harkening the angels down in spaceships
like the tablets of the Beatitude; but it is in altitude
where base metal becomes gold, you must carry it proudly
in your heart and let it go;
It is the sudden spring snow gilding saplings to their souls,
the crow’s cry as she reads the new Testament during Ramadan
to druidic chants making peace with Kali, fasting holy for the feast.

Every month I bleed, five days of revelation
The abortion of a selfish imposed retaliation:

The truest Truths we hold, we know them close,
but set them aflame just to see if they’ll still grow.

But the seed knows the difference between photosynthesis and pyromania;
it craves the warmth and even up in flames
it remains, till the charring fat around it melts away
leaving only the Name,
leaving only the Name.

This entry was posted on April 5, 2009 at 6:41 pm and is filed under poetry with tags alternative history, black holes, cydonia, poetry, revelation, the name. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.