It’s a hot and misty silence that chokes out our senses,
squeezing it from the utopic garden
promoted by songsters and politicians.
It disorients in the main like a dirty bomb’s blast.
causing you to lumber about in the prevailing haze.
Caulking up holes of protests,
it gags any contrarian,
and with their fettered convictions,
disappears them from the streets.
Heat-sensitive, it finds you.
Its wanton probing inciting …
stirring a slow, dark feeling
till you’re shivering with fear.
“Now’s not the time,” you think,
“Sometime later you’ll be coherent enough to ponder
human incapacity for peace and brotherly love.”
But what if that element yonder prevents your future wonder?
“This is not the place,” you think!
You deserve fresh air,
doves flying freely above,
trees dipping gracefully in the breeze,
brooks cooing to rocks their love …
such peace, in rumination, aids.
For surely with purity pouring into your lungs
and sanctifying your untarnished shell,
you’ll challenge that mystic wonderland —
that desert where you inhaled silence with sand,
and like a great sieve,
you’ll spit out the fallacies;
ultimately holding only substance.
Then, from mountain or valley,
like a prophet you’ll expound
the awareness that burns gassy in your lungs,
and which must be expelled.
Gasping, gesturing, nearly mad,
you’ll point — unable to shout —
point to the sacred light that parts the dust,
revealing the unseen truth to the dim.
Or maybe you’ll scatter your message electronically,
flinging it into the cyber-universe
like essence of enlightenment for their stinky souls.
Presently, take charge of those fearsome bones.
Now, before the extinction,
where that slow stifling compression of the senses
crystalizes in destruction,
and former footholds burn like hotbeds for lost souls.