Septagraphic Emerald Minaret

Desperate fingers scratch at the paper cage of history
Listening for a word they do not know
Men of science and spirit alike marveled
The oldest songs had no translation, no analogue among the tongues of men, no ghost at all
Silenced by frustration, deaf to the singers in the trees

And thus, to turn the heads of unsuspecting prey
We uttered our first abstraction, the original lie and our first word all at once

“In the beginning there was the word
And the word was with god and the word was god”

We are told that the oldest tomes in the book of life were penned by un-living chemical ancestors,
That life, did in fact, imitate art.
It is said that Odin discovered the Runes, that they already were.
Rune is the word for secret
And after all, what do we call an act of magic, but a spell.

Stumbling through the wilds,
Far past the utterance of forbidden questions,
Out in the terror and the romance,
The attachments grow quiet,
In that lonely eleventh of hours…

The Dragon, the Genie, the Mana, the Keikion,
The Grail, the Lotus, a bush that burns but is not consumed,
From the trumpet of Thoth-Hermes-Lucifer-Gabriel,
Sounded atop Septagraphic Emerald Minaret
The Gnosis: mind without the boundary of the self,
An infinite regression of symbolic abstraction carries him back from the brink,
Only to wash away all trace of home

“In the beginning there was the word
And the word was with god and the word was god”
To the flock, a soothing balm of validation
That what they imagine as the scripture is read
Is the experience of god

But for the shepherd,
The thesis of the book that rules men’s hearts
It turns queens into nuns…
Monks into warriors…
Just read it to them.
It is what god is.
Just read it to them.

Logos, great destroyer, more false than any prophet, held in higher esteem
Appealer you are, to the ego of man, to any and all of his aspirations
How ironic, that in turning your weapons upon you and proving it all a lie,
I did wrestle the Word from the god who usurped it,
And in cursing your name…

A voice called my name
I thought it was a dream
I thought I healed the wound you made
But it was the wound that healed me

Empty heart, empty mind
Finally free inside
Empty heart, empty mind
Finally free inside

This is my broken tusk
This is my missing eye
And when I say I must
This is the reason why

Sick as I was with the ways of the world, the tar oil of false speech still staining my lungs,
It would be easy, I thought, to sit upon high hills as Siddhartha did at first,
And leave the christs upon their crosses, nailed to their own delusions

But it was not so easy, as the Devas bid me look out upon the view, after all they argue,
What is enlightenment for but to see? What is seeing for but to help?

This is my broken tusk
This is my missing eye
And when I say I must
This is the reason why

I know what it is to be utterly hypnotized by the beauty of biblical language
From the lips of my very parents

I told my sister about jesus, the name of her undoing
Words deceive whole nations into believing their neighbors inhuman

But all language is art, and open to interpretation, and when we paint honestly and together,
we change how the story goes, and the great one moves.

To be who I am is to need your help
I am here to make a poetry with you that I cannot make on my own.