Preparing for the Elohim Scuffle

Posted by Erik Moshe on Sunday, February 24, 2013 Under: Poetry

The difference between an average moment and a moment of self spiritualization. When the consignor downs the blue tablet with a glass of well water, doused by the Duke of Wellington’s morning routines. It never successfully enters your mind that you are living in the moment. Time ships coast conflagration stations, authorizing thousands of thinking man’s machines for safe passage through the testicular fortitudes of space and time. A dimensional sperm count is analyzed and stored for future exploitation, for when Orson Scott Card’s book of Mormon modes is discarded or when Octavia Butler’s earth seeds fall to courtyards littered with dark matter as the star spangled banner is playing, small school children from Kenya playing in the rocks and sand. Twirling uranium cake in their fingers, watching it erode and spread like buttermilk bread, barely crust, falling to pieces and crumbles. Galactic biproducts of a nonlinear sediment, perpendicular to this mad business.

UNESCO trucker somewhere up the skirt of Neptune’s secret moon is covering his tracks in asteroids, drinking a vanilla milkshake. Doesn’t the Vatican version of sweet, sweet colonialist history taste so good?

No council is needed for unanimous curiosities. Simply go and explore, advocating independent progress.

If I was a God, where would I hide? Perhaps in the folds of a peppermint bible page or in the furthermost corner of a mathematical revelation unlike anything humans can devise. I would hide in place of the deepest calculi. I would hide throughout the Book of Malachi left open on an armchair in Abraham’s Saudi getaway or under the robes of splendidly dressed storm clouds for all eyes to see. Out in the desert moonshine, waiting for results to write themselves. I would hide at the center of a ballroom dance floor, holding Richard Dawkin’s phantom hand, offering soothsaying melodies.

Partisans in their parcel Mecca’s join Buddhists in their journey of pilgrimage to the sun-baked stairways of chilled mountain ranges. Bedouins of the milky expressways from the Euphrates to the Amazon find port access in Hindu territory. Maybe Mumbai. Enlight. Entroducing…shadows unlike the titanium windmill can produce, or replicate, or mimic.

The allegory in the cave is not an accurate mural of a people who choose to remain in the darkness, unaware of Socratic methods and other outlandish (outerspace) totemic bypass surgeries one may frequent in the quest for ‘meaning in this universe.’ I’m not a realist, I’m a real list of tangible objectives in this mostly metaphysical swimming pool overcrowded with misrepresented chests of knowledge. Sternums without a key. Narcoleptic prophets who faint at the sight of their burning bush and catch fire, losing their lives accidentally. Though some sleep is preordained, like organized religion awakening after a long rest. Until the Elohim cometh, I’ll be snoozing my alarm. Wake me before the final unveiling scene.

In : Poetry 

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