Death Is A Metaphor [Magical Realism]

I've been lazily spending my days

shooting holes in the fabric of time

that science has already adjusted by degrees,

wistfully, longingly waiting for communion.

You may have heard about the holy ghost people,

openly condemning the past mistakes of our tribe.

When they opened the doors demons rushed out

breaking loose from holy sacrifices that they owned.

Crossing railroad tracks, the train never slowed,

headlong into a state of grace required by law.

The law speaks of magnificent glory boxes.

Still trapped in your magic dance, I remain.

It's not a matter of religious ceremony.

I remind you of the community that sees

the rituals, the witnesses, the lords of dark.

St. Francis sings of the crowned ones,

He knew the second death does no harm.

He spoke of Brother Sun and Sister Moon, of us.

Medieval demons tear down the walls to expose

a sight never meant to be seen by mortal man.

The fuselage of our ship, covered with words,

and the words read,  "Remain in the tube. Please

don't touch the electric wires wrapped around the tube. 

They are only there for your protection."

The reliquary manufacturing plant works overtime

to produce our crosses to bear, our healing stones.

You sound as if you are talking through velvet.

Biting your lip as you pro·phet·i·cal·ly

explain the processes of foretelling events.

Drawing blood up through your skin, for me.

Black mascara drawn in wide arcs above and

below my eyes, blue of hazel, dark make-up hides

the evidence of tears turning velvet to acid.

Sounds of animals in pain and dying.


The pierced glass of intelligent design in

the empires manifestation of evolution where

water flows up, [is] not naturally declaring

Marshall Law.  Blood on the walls anyway.

Skeletons are speaking tangled words, disguising

your rage at being caught cheating at solitaire.

But is it still a conspiracy theory if it

is someone Else's music that they hear? Ours.

The true believers dance around the subject,

tripping on their own silent accords.

I am the doctor.  I don't play one on tv.on the radio.

But I know who I am regardless of the phantom noise.

I have had serious brain trauma.  I healed myself.

There was no lasting damage.  I remember everything

now.  What you said. What you did.  Long ago.

What you did so long ago when the earth was new.

The complexity of the issue, education. elucidation.

Yes, I have an agenda that has been formed as well as yours. 

United misunderstandings.  There are no words for it.

Cry me a river that leads to your heart.

Somewhere that I am not likely the missing piece,

but forever found in the union.

Give it all back.

The call of the virgin.

The face of god.

Right here. Right now.

Prepare to be astonished.

© Donna M. Surles  01.11.2011