Man cuts the tree designing awful grace,
plodding footsteps carrying bags of skin
seized by a lyssa, or Diana's seed?

Bizarre Khazar Kings sipping the bloody
bejeweled rope strangling their short regal necks,
bullet to the brain of mass spectacle.

The pictures light up a black box, "I AM
HERE. King of the Wood plucking of a bough,
sacrificial bull I yam what I yam…

Fruit hangs heavy on the malignant vine,
round luscious, seeds of forbidden knowledge.
I lick, I caress, I suck, and swallow

Hole; and I chase the rabbit down the hole
to the lake of Nemi—ancient mirror.
Woof shut-up – woof shut-up – woof shut-up – woof.

Jackals howl needing flesh for their babies.
Man trims trees, plants hubris corn and rice pearls.
Footsteps plod, plod, plod, down, down, down, the stair,

wiring up the free-air, steel girders cut
slicing and dicing, chop-chop salad buzz
connect conduits, collect bloody guts,

I want to be alive, I want to roll-
up in a ball and die, and set my sail
for the sea shore of The Shining City.

Where the purling stream cleanses putrid stench,
all decay…distilling impurities,
washing the air with soapy bubbles of

Bath. Quenching the thirst of divinity,
nailing needles into walls of my womb 
ohm-eye, as I kiss the branch of King Tree.

Deluded birth after birth, O Arjuna,*
be splendid princes of a borrowed house
with shoveled dung in the doorway.

Om tat sat Om tat sat Om tat sat Aum
Only the Father, Son and Holy Ghost?
Where are the children of the golden sun?

Gopitâ, why do you hide the secret?
Moon Mani, chased by devouring wolves
gathers Sin into the fold of dim light.

Together they rule the night, and the day
belongs to the night of the living dead.
My wedding dress rots in a box downstairs.

Mommy fixes buttons, hems, and the seams
of cracked tea-pots with a mind cracked in two,
while Daddy brews coffee and pencils notes:

Good Morning my Love! Good Morning Baby!
To my one and only the Lord blessed me
with you and a life of good memories…

Desperate to wake-up the new walking shade;
without we there is no me and no you.
Lord help me accept world-destroying time.

Shanti, shanti, shanti, keep my love warm.
Let flowers sing songs on the cold fresh grave
of over-turned soil, a fertile compost;

white lilies wilt, but red geraniums
root into the rich earth like blood turnips
winding down, down, to the river under.

Cold letters on a page, all that remain
of a thought, of a wishful sentiment.
Om shanti, shanti, bless the dead poem. 

 

© Conrad Reeder, 2004
* Bhagavad Gita XVI. 20