Genesis Loci

[rowens]

Genesis Loci


There was no god in the garden,
It was Adam and Eve talking past each other.
Cain and Abel became that surface.
And It talked to Cain until he made Nod with his wife . . .
Only with Abram does such talking go on past the prime,
and a cult, called Abraham, arises on the seal of Moses. 

Jesus' I was crossed out and christened,
anointed of It. 
Above Father he descended to Fatherhood Himself.
A totem in the race.
Centuries of dead men praised, idolized.

Aeons of mute and ignored buddhas 
ascended on the Evening Land. 
A crowned and conquering child envisioned
on the blindspots of the sun:
angel the size of a pinecone
drew duncelike coordinates in It's
falcon arrangements.
A mere ostrich feather shook 
the timeless ramparts asunder.

Self-love, in It's imposture,
caught flame in the dark.
A generation of chaos took turns making leaps.
Jehovah stares out from the middle-eye of the Goat of Mendes.

Here, in the redneck salons,
technology and impertinence utilize
a folkloric emblem. 
Wise as teeth, signals from bone to blood
are enough for the common man.   
I cross my self, burning everything I've learned.
Fates worse than Ignorance are humorous,
warm, fun. 
Bum.

[dukealien]

Burned out by religion? Better than the Inquisition, but less stimulating.

I like the idea of religion(s) as a set of building-blocks which can be assembled into various configurations, all without glue.

But there is still a certain gravity to the game.

[rowens]

The shadowy figure called It peeks out from all the formations throughout the paradigms. Right down to me, a drifter through Realms. The local magics of Everywhere.
I saw years ago a movie called The Abandoned. The Double in the house of heritage is after you, to kill you, to stifle you. You can't defend yourself as everything you do to the Double happens to you.
And so it is with Everything.
All cells in one organism jockeying for position.
Me, I'm a bum. I take things and leave them. A pragmatic American. Citizen of the Multiverse. Embracing fact and fiction as no difference.
A wrestler can go on forever and never retire.
I never tap out. Even when I'm wrestling myself. Especially.
Joy.

[Mark A Becker]

Hey rowens-

After wrestling with your words, these were the ones that won me:

"A totem in the race.
Centuries of dead men praised, idolized."

"... blindspots of the sun"

"A generation of chaos took turns making leaps."

"Here, in the redneck salons,
technology and impertinence utilize
a folkloric emblem."

[rowens]

Everything in the poem is an allusion to something. A series of paradigms.

I'm stuck at my neighbor's house. He works during the day. I write poems and then go home. Weather is making up for the previous years' strangeness, and there's been snow snow snow.
I've been sitting here day after day, writing poem after poem. And rewriting them.
When I get bored with myself and my readings, I look at pictures of girls I used to know. It's enchanting how they look better as they get older.

---

I like to play in the snow, and go on adventures. Cold makes adventure more profound and potent. But I've been sick.
O the women get more beautiful as the world gets older. Sicker, paler, and glory sings undiluted.

---

I go to my room, and light candles and lanterns, and get under the covers and fart and burp and breathe hard, do whatever I can to stay warm through the night.