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Iron Pentacle Poem Cycle: Power Point #1-#3 January 6, 2010

Posted by frostwolftfirerose in Poem-A-Day.
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#1

Tsunamis, floods, earthquakes, landslides! Unleashing!
Those all carry an awe I must acknowledge
for all these Force Majeure events, Acts of Gaia enacted
on the face of this ever-turning sphere must hold fast
our collective attention.  And yet, this point right hand,
everyday interactions, contains a gentler pressure, hidden
in the simple glance and smile, a sparrow darting
in and out of a bush at morning, a walk by a river
sitting seemingly inert in frozen landscape, but lo!
how much action happens below the ice, and between
the subfreezing, packed molecules in collective dance.
The simple fact of the lightning in blood velocity
crusing hundreds of miles an hour through veins
and arteries, transporting the living elixir through valves,
vessels, down to capillary suburbs, in digital
extremities.  And consider the liver’s occult grinding
of debris and offal to suck out remnant nutrition
and cycle the remainder out into digestive tract.
Ye Goddess of mystery inhabiting the cavity dark
unseen in the realm of eyes and light, I behold thy true POWER!

#2

Our vEmpire culture with its cocky, preening, puffy,
overemphasized, surely gets it all wrong.  Empty
penis shells, muscularity enveloping hollowed-out cores
like a fleet of disappointment chocolate Santas with airy
vacuum inside –this is what is extolled as great?
Truth be found! Greatness is mediocrity refined most
fab, a far cry from quiet excellence.  But power
resides in the latter, and only bravado and force
populate the ranks of the merely great, the grandly
audacious.  This point too becomes com-ballooned
with its excess.  The twisty tree stands black, crimson,
forest, would seem to the unitiated to be so many men,
so much battle, so little orgasmic time.  Warp-fantasy
of orgiastic blood battles steals Power’s true attentions.
And really, when thought of, just how could it be
that an empty eagle relate to a flexy Nerf ball?  The Sissy
in short-shorts and a pink Missy Attitude wields
so much more fear than the sternest base sergeant.
Our roller-skater fairy exudes unforeseeable potency:
Will he surprise you with a barb?  Or worse, a kiss!

#3

Each day, I work in the shapeshift mold, the vEmpire
which tries vainly to lure me into its sterile Heidi
Klum Klutches, its starched and pressed delusions.
I feel a bit of something slip away often, and come
to believe for a moment that I bring my death forward.
Because except for the blessed lunch reprieve
from moment I board 35X at Congress and Third
to the moment 9 hours later, when I de-bus
a block away, I have no real life to speak of. Henry
Miller’s Air-Conditioned Nightmare has me in thrall.
The unfairness of it all! O, the humanity, as I curse
berate the God that I am.  For somehow in my unconscious
Virgo-Libra life-phase, the post-collegiate, post-grad
fog of various compulsions leading me nasal, I became
enslaved to the zombie dollar.   The equation flipped,
I work for the money, a capitalism casualty.  No wonder
I long for the guillotine, the pink slip for the head.  The ax
to be taken in corporate severance from viral gray matter.
Power switched into the force-fear ping-pong game.
And some Jehovahsatan can’t come to end it all soon enough.

Cross-posted to livejournal/ordinarysacred.

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