None So Blind
None so Blind…
Love came in stillness, creating within
itself countless heavenly spaces of
spontaneous spore vapors and fertile,
seeded grounds in tender and timeless
hovering, completing cosmos of expanding
brilliant, darkness and sunlight, laboring
a new being, man.
Everything and nothingness mulched in vast
fragrant breaths, infusing life.
Mementos, forget-me-nots and disremembered
Beginnings, were, are and will be the
Spirit’s gifts to His Beloved?
Allowing each a choosing and a denying,
A believing or a pretend ignorance,
A dawning or an ending, blindness or an
unfolding, neglect or a fashioning, shame or
Loathing or imitating and conniving or a rooting,
Spinning or falsifying and sampling or recoiling,
Looting or restoring and fermenting or reinventing,
Rising and inspiring, Losing and finding.
As revolutions are televised death called a black
punk band to the making of a journey without the
contracted recorded reels spent on bourbon’s
bitter necessities and tobacco’s repugnance
that ten thousand dancing swigs at the Bottle Cap
Inn couldn’t placate or quench but rather enriched
a dreamy Detroit, in vivid blues of vinyl.
Deadly strands, gleaming white and silky with
brooding sadness surrounded by quickening sands,
now read cascades of scrolled tablets angled along
ageing shadows, crisscrossing cocaine lines.
Century upon century of sanguine minds suppress
Unfretted pupils into over-populated valleys of
Screening ring less graspers sing Ole Lang Zion and
Drusilla Vulcan Valhalla Operas while uploading off
The rim of Riley’s pitiless blade hunters running
game in spastic, gyrations of flashing anemic, bodies
parading polite customs for bored, star-track hordes
of self-abusing pricks.
Narcissus dress down last years’ Tyrell replicants
For runways of lonely, mistreated shady wanna be
Women with naturally occurring drooping balls of
mad diseased cows.
A Galapagos of hurts flood innocence defiled in
cement places of annuitized pensions for the
education lottery of evil in the rigid bowels of
a hardy ABC soup.
Hollywood pin up Haywood would have recited
‘Cry havoc and who let the dogs of war out?’ if
her princely father’s petticoat had traced the
tears of that dove.
Beware of the head Nazi’s rancid reigning mouth
of terror as a payment for a hard bed, a leaky
roof and some used clothes while squatting in
homage to bloody aboriginal warriors of Conrad’s
Blind Willie Johnson searches in vain for an answer
to the question, ‘What is the soul of a man?’ and the
‘Nigger of the Narcissus River’ returns to Superior
Spectators’ skype Pandora’s boxed rabbit hole for
the insatiable lust of a Matrix nation and its clones
rhetorically ask, How many times can a cannonball
fly, how many miles can the phone roam?
How many bridges to fire, how many waters to boil
Unable to ask, how many violated wombs must birth
before we know ourselves and offer secured, upwardly
flying sparks of gratitude for limitless, restraining
Grace in the face of God?
Photograph by Steven Lewis
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