Friday, January 18, 2008

The Ballad of the Bhudda, Latter Years

Therewith sat the silent.

Angelic and demonic,
Holy and hellish,
Suffering no liars,
Paying no heed to the unworthy.

And those lesser,
Encompassed by hedonist excess,
Sadist wherewithal,
Accusers accepting no responsibility,
Workers seeking excuse,
Thinkers lacking capacity,
Acclaimed deeming themselves,
Fictionists claiming truth,
Truth claiming fiction,
Spoken word accusing listener,
Speaker listening to never,
Listener attaching to tongue,
Seekers looking elsewhere,
Elsewhere faking where,
Where being there,
There becoming here,
Supernova actualizing sun.

Et tu the reverse?

No answer to the call.

Lifeless dragged the wretched limbs and bodies,
Bringing toward a place where someone knew,
And on sight threw leprous minds in bow.

Self-administered solace,
For self-inflicted incisions,
Into the crevices of battered soul and mind,
“I was always right.” thinks them,
And onto the new Zion they clambered.

The terrain treacherous as well as forgiving,
And in tow the ones who needed not the backs of others,
These pilgrims sauntered on,
Left behind are those that fell behind,
Forgotten are those who asked for help,
For the parasitic lesser seek not to support.

Onward mountain ranges,
River valleys,
Thick forest,
Thin forest,
Calm road,
Roughshod road,
Through quagmire,
Onto sand,
‘til if a thousand tongues
Gnashed together clearly,
In years it would take a thousand score
Times a thousand score,
To name each environment passed.

At times water scarce,
Comfort laughable,
Though nothing achieved.

For once the trip seemed ended,
And their tired, poor, amassed at the foot of the way,
Sat waiting for an answer,
A sermon from the mount,
A clue to use against the inner regions of the indecipherable,
Something more than what they considered lesser.



“Speak!” louder,
And still nothing.

The lesser sure that they were owed something,
Certain that his silence was really indolence and disrespect,
All cried in unison, “Speak ye bastard!”


Their echo shouted back at them,
But not a word from he that was being demanded of.

Reversal was always the movement,
Not contrary to anything assigned,
But on a line that was never slave to the definition of “line.”

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