I ASKED YOU A QUESTION
(A READING FROM THE GOSPEL OF PEIN)
Such a human line of questioning
What moot wrong have I done
by the mirror
to warrant his visual mischief?
Does the misdemeanour of a dry throat
win a date with the ball and chain's
swooning silver sister
seducer instead of constrictor?
Why must her murcury spring
retract its quench
at the hint of my tongue's arrival?
My visit?
Your lucky day
You need no longer fossilize
with your wherefores and whys
in the muck of the human condition
I am no mirage
Let the red nectar of knowledge
enfranchise your mouth
like a warm brilliant lozenge
Let our hoods sink to our shoulders
We are each other's atmosphere
today
(Like fan to flame
the trail of flame to mind
unlocks a breeze of fate
where yellow and orange entwine)
Let us meet
where the preach of polarity
welds our focus so tight
we relinquish our right to sidestep
Let comrades-in-arms saddle into think tanks
and collectively bargain like bumper cars
And what of our leaders:
stained glass shards searing over red embers
desperate to save enough shine
to ensure the smoke remembers
My king lies punctured and limp
in his static throne
your queen's proud forehead wiped featureless
by his psychic scepter of bone
(What moot wrong has she done
by the mirror?)
Our bishop
shunned this manner of gaming
Was he wary of sore losers?
Was passion mistaken for poor sportsmanship?
Did I hear a hiccup of contempt
bounce off your classmate's floor?
Did human pride hijack your vision
before my childhood threw a mirror at you?
Our bishop schooled us
as humans
Only we could strap anger
to the backs of summoned dinosaurs
and realign humankind's wheels
with the offroad divinity of peace
Our bishop formed a yellow team
maybe to evoke the sun
maybe to evolve
your crawling captainhood
as I walked the beat of graduation
Now your senior has arrived
with book of orange
and black and white bookmarks
to commemorate his stalled teachings
Our bishop schooled you and I
as masses
In his wake his it occurred to you
that we are saints?
Humanity's best shot at superheroes?
Perpeutal employees of the month?
Warriors of weekend back shifts?
Keepers of the keys to the city?
Erasers of mortal scribblings?
The front rank?
Shock absorbers?
Foot soldiers?
Sin eaters?
Has our little heart-to-heart stalemate
summoned a snarl in your belly?
Has your thirst for an answer
wrung out your throat?
Only kings and queens
hold the grudges of extremes
Holy ones sing of higher powers
Soldiers insist on forward motion
The goals of our leaders enchant
with the hypnotic fodder
of tablets and scrolls
Our goals
read like wet fingertips
on the mist of a two-way mirror
We are the stuffed descendants
of hollow men
of a once-modern age
doomed to infinities of hunger
Welcome to the whimper of existence
Welcome to the world of a pawn
Can you subdue the red snarl
in your stomach?
Here is a cup of my blood
Take it
Drink from it
Clean out your throat
I want to hear your answer