The Bodies Buried

They can’t all fail, can they?
Each region it’s model of worship,
what ever was amalgamated,
altered, used weapon-like, then dismantled;
then rebuilt, by the victor, by the people
liberated, because out in this open air
concert, in their christian t-shirts
and muslim beards, and tattoos
samoan, viking, & Disney, boy, they
look confused. They are white, with dread
-locks, and worry knots; they are
as empty as the light
which comes out of the bulb,
but for some darkness, nothing
without a glow has convinced us
that we are less by being: this heavy
address, this heavier dress,
it sells to us a wife and vulnerability, a
husband and servility; no nation is without this
worry, and no person who has entered in
to the corporate headquarters alive
can live at the faked emptiness
of mortal craft religion
fraud and business, plans of like
showing like their curfews
and operating systems
this long
without distorting;  it’s never changing
the oil
in yr motor, never getting the q-tip
onto the old cassette head
things Associations of opinion
and terror in the language of terror
for a thing imagined, hypnotism
in the spell, buy a history in creation,
by we being as the lightness,
the mist among the water falling in Te Puke
or Niagara, the lightness of the feeling
to simply say things—we are
what the language needs to Be,
to see and not to hold to what was in the seeing
yesterday, memory enough to get home
by instinct, if necessary, make Home
where it needs to be, putting everything
else
into the great burning that is
yesterday.

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