The highway spilling like an asphalt corridor
and the urge of those dissonant strings
snapping like a cracking whip at my back
and spurring me on into this unknowable wilderness
A blank and impenetrable wall of a wild darkness ...
Scribbles, graffitti near like a past-life,
runes erode heavily about those road-weary eyes,
hidden only by those thin and colored panes
of mirrored glass,
and the dreams that they echo
An imitation of civilization reflects back
the near sacred images of power, sex,
and any other mortal allusions to those
creatures of pain
Tomorrow, some of them will likely be found floating...
Adrift and away beyond the panache
for which they had come to adorn
all these tympanic high-walls
of some hollow form of noise & righteousness,
are merely another nameless portrait of loss
When nothing touches deeper
than any other given moment,
there will always have to be
those small sacrifices of truth
Something like the infant-Moses in a basket...
Drawn away by those river devils
toward some ancient great house
of an old foreign god--
Raised and educated among
the wonders of both good and evil;
a silent child of all that civilization
Thothema... the name breaks free, alive
and orphaned from modern thought
which had little been considered anything
but dead... or impotent
Such as are always left for those keepers of night and its secrets.
Peace,
Po
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