Scriptor Press - The ElectroLounge

ix. Guerrilla
Believe everything, beyond the capacity of
lung & will. Heed fire in the air, brilliance
in your veins, cosmos in every hand. Believe.
Despair. Between: breathe harder. Bellow
in an empty street toward a diamond hope unknown.
Believe. It hurts. Now, in places lined with
placards & bells. It hurts. You exist:
choiceless, eager. Pulled forward, outward,
you resist. Death ever sings a sugar song
along your skin. Believe & moan. Again.
Resist, submit: Anarchy murmurs in the heart.
I know you know. Alive, thus restless.
Music calls you alive you listen. Drums join
head to heart to thigh to beat. I know
you know. Dance harder within, it hurts, it frees.
Believe, vast trees, full moon, the yes & beyond
of night’s music. Laugh, call it faith.
A charred figure chanting goldensong. Hand
conjures hand, makes broad stains unto a
landscape, new rivulets through the cosmos.
Greater songs ferment. Believe with
music, something like a lingual dance,
fire in the air, brilliance in your veins,
cosmos in every hand. Beyond smile &
yes, need’s need. An open field, ascending
bonfire, freedom a thousand bodies & still
opening outward. A full moon, where the
many prayers pass through & back, I know
you know. Anarchy murmurs in the heart.
Resist, submit. One true note, deeper,
higher. Music resembling home at certain
rising hours. Resembling love, clarity.
Holy emptiness, laughing. One true note,
& a persistent fancy of her dancing: cyclone, fury.
51
The Cenacle / 54 / April 2005