Banana Palace. Dana Levin
His head’s on fire.
Like a Paleolithic shaman
working now in the realm of air, he
folds his hands—
No more casting bones
for the consulting seeker, this gesture
seems to mean.
Your business, his flaming head suggests,
is with your thought-machine.
How it churns and churns.
Lord Should and Not-Enough,
Mute the Gigantor, looming dumb
with her stringy hair—
Deadalive Mom-’n’-Dad (in the sarcophagus
of parentheses
you’ve placed them)—
He’s a yogi, your man
with a hat of smoke. Serene, chugging out streams
of constructed air…
Mind’s an accident
of bio-wiring, is one line of thinking.
We’re animals that shit out
consciousness, is another.
The yogi says:
you must understand yourself
as projected vapor.
Thus achieve your
superpower.
MORNING NEWS
We were mutants, we were being
put into groups.
Assigned a patch of gymnasium floor—
A gelatinous plasma with star-sparking
was part of my body—
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
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