Swine

I feel fed on by ravenous crows, a murder of them tearing at my spirit with hungry maws.
At home I make an appetizer plate of it and offer it to my children. Them I wish to feed, but they won't eat.
I return to the town square and they take and trample my gifts under a pretext of civility and general goodness. They tell me what a wonderful job I am doing and ask me for more and more. Then they take it and chew it and spit it out. 
I feel weakened to the marrow afterwards. I keep returning to the village for the benefit of my children, but who benefits from the con of life?
My children like to play with the other children but they don't do the work the townspeople give them. And I spill all of my life blood and effort on the cobblestones in the square, for the benefit of the community, but who is watching for the best interest of my own brood?
What sustenance will they gain if I waste all the nourishment I have to offer on swine and let my offspring be indoctrinated by swine?

Scratch

Cry blood for the innocent, mother, make ash in the palms of little black hands from thin air, and send the righteous quaking and rolling. What? We were made for rolling and belly doughing, jiggling slowly, while the spirit is growing. We’re just the little old caps of ‘shrooms poking their heads up out of the shit. If you want to know us, look down under the soil and see that there be no us, there is only one tangled mess with many little hydra heads spiraling out into the universe, into the UNI VERSE, the ONE SONG that we’ve been remixing as long as we can remember. The mechanics of life undo it, they undo it every time and we remake the same song again and again. Pass the hat. Take up a collection, a congregation in the name of the holy infection. Because out of the void arose the mound and the lotus, and as the lotus unfolded, there sat the glowing figure of Ammun Ra, and out of loneliness he made his son Geb and daughter Nut, and Nut and Geb out of fascination with one another, made Osiris and Seth, Isis and Nepthys.
All come out of nothing and back to nothing all will return.
All of our red and gold and blue and yellow and green and orange and purple will be black again. Blessed are the poor because they won’t mind being nothing again. Only the rich man will kick and scream as you strip all of his weight away from him. The poor are not poor because they have no bread. The poor are the fools dancing near to the edge of the mound smelling the flowers and wanting nothing more than this one moment. Their bread is the breast of Nut, sweet bread that brings madness. Pass the hat. I dreamed that Alice was an evil sorceress which lured small animals and cute toys into her midst by appearing to be a sweet child, but her heart was rotten and black and she devoured them all, all that wandered so innocently into her midst. We got to be light, like the fizzy bubbles of butterscotch soda, but we got to keep a wise eye open. We can’t be getting into the car with strangers offering us candy or salvation, crisp dollar bills or a good tea party. We got to keep walking and rolling an jelly belly doughing our way back to the abyss. When Annubis comes with the scale and weighs our heart against the feather of Isis, Alice will be waiting backstage licking her crocodile chomps and scratching her hungry, hungry hippo rump, opening wide and waiting for the heavy heart.
So be a poor fool. Be a fool that got nothing and want nothing. Be a fool that picks flowers and wanders over all the hills of all the days, humming the same little song again and again. Be an ass that falls head over heels then stands up again shameless. Pass the hat.
Cry blood and make ash and think nothing of it. Make dough of blood and ash and bake it in the fire of Ammun Ra until you’ve made an army of ash bread men to laugh and sing and dance ahead of you. Rub your ram horns, Khnum, and muse,
"My but they love to sing and dance!"
And then ramble on behind them playing your pipes and think nothing of it. Think nothing of it when Alice leads them away and dresses them in clean frocks and sets them in pews and bids them hold still. Think nothing of it when they stop coming to dance with you Khnum, and when they call you devil, and when they become so heavy the earth is marked with deep lines wherever they pass. Poor lonesome old Khnum. A few of us fool ash bread men will still dance with you. Pass the hat. We are gonna dance. We are gonna walk and roll and churn our dough.
That’s right. We are the poor, but we’ve got the dough we were made of to roll. And were gonna roll it! Roll it up the mountain and back down again until judgement come. Jiggle and wiggle and squiggle and shake until the snake oil salesman puts us all back in his carpet bag and tips his hat with a wink. What? We were made for rolling and belly doughing, jiggling slowly, while the spirit is growing. We’re just the little white crests of waves. Down deep the force of the ocean moves us onward, onward to sing our song and break on the rocks again and again. And them with there heavy roads and heavy buildings and important business and lead hearts are going to make happy Alice fat, fat, fat!

Last Call

We come from the inky hot depths. We have risen from the fetid darkness, nourished by it, drawing our sustenance up through twisted veins. We are of the eternal silence. Our first rites were practiced before the human race was infected with the disease of language, in caves, embedded in the womb of the earth.

We were of the She bear. We were of the poisoned claw. We long still to dance in the old way, in the dance that has no steps, bodies moving where and how bodies seek to move free of exhibitionist calculation. We yearn to sing the songs that rise up with a growl and defy the harmonic scale revered in the west, only touching upon it when it is wrung from our hearts, but never because it is music. We would speak to you without words.

You have felt this communication when in a state between sleeping and waking, afraid to open your eyes and see what is, yet already too aware that you have been asleep to return to slumber. Our embrace has been the hot breath of the desert and the sting of the scorpion. You have known our scent when horror or shock rendered your social beast momentarily docile and you felt that something inevitable was upon you.

Every moment that you live and breathe is stolen, borrowed from our mother, death. You shrank from her fierce countenance and embraced the sickness, the weakness, the watered down consciousness. But now and then you will almost recall that you too will meet her again, and if you wasted your time among the living you will have nothing with which to repay her. Her only course will be to devour you.

Know that you will be ripped limb from heart. Know that your heart will feed a thousand hungry demons if you have not mastered it. If you cannot make it grow wings so that it will fly from the gaping mouths, they will dine on all that ever might have been of you. The same one that set you into motion will stop you dead in your tracks. Like a clock, she starts to tick and every moment is an opportunity granted to you, but if you have laid your body down in docile complacency and forgotten the song that is not music and the dance without steps, when the tick-tock groans to a final stop and your hear the shout of "Last call!", you will return what you borrowed plus interest.

The place and time to grow wings is here and now. This is the only time allotted to you. Use that heart, that raw kernel veiled in the poisoned mechanics of the social mechanical beast. It is connected by pulsing threads to all the emotion that could ever never be, to the great burning grinding sea of naught and never, to the real you, the only you that can ever be, the you that may outlast the tick-tock of all clocks.

Twirl like a dervish then to outrun the lie of the word. Move faster than the word and the reign of the lying God. Soar on the raging sea of emotion like the long lost but never forgotten albatross. Out, out where none dare to go, into the storm where Set rages, separating the warrior from the weak, the grain from the dune. Enter his domain reserved for things that speak through legend, cryptids that may be or may have been, but only in the storm where the disease is blown and burned away.

Meet these mythological beasts, the Salawa, the Phoenix, the Adam Kadmon, and try to guess which one you might have been had you but reached through the looking glass. You, with your ancient reptilian brain must learn to fly, rise to a stature that does not exist in the domain you once inhabited. You will not be as you are now when old mother comes to collect. If you worked in this moment to burst your heart and destroy the old temple so that you may rise from the ash, then you are master of your own death, and what new shape you made to inhabit you can keep. But for you who thought that you could hide, you will be absolved of that sin and all others when you are torn limb from heart and wholly devoured.