O People! Listen to the Children of Jimi!
The walls of Elysium come crumbling down.
The walls of Elysium come crumbling down,
as We decide to pass the torch to Our
Children, Our Friends:
the notion
of freedom.
The walls of Elysium come crumbling down.
The walls of Elysium come crumbling down,
as We decide to pass the fire to Our
Children, Our Friends:
the notion
of humanity.
O freer of slaves, what say you?
The Word, the Word, can no one see
The Word?
The Word speaks:
The world is a lonely place.
The
world needs light.
*An ongoing project of poems and narratives aiming to explore what religion really is through creating a Frankenstein out of all of them. This poem by itself is pretty ambiguous, but so is most scripture. I'd like to think of it as my attempt (however poor or great it may be) for a Psalm.There's a lot of material I've written that might post, or not post, but we'll see what plays out.
Here's one about Jimi, an accidental founder of this imaginary movement:
Bow before
the Word!
Sure enough,
Elysium’s doors
open for the
Word’s
Fed-Ex delivery,
sign there, the
initials of
Elysium she etches with
a bad and used-up
Bic pen.
Hunt
antlers down into the valley,
green with life
and ganja.
Sunflowers
crushed by the
forever-tripping
vine scuttle.
An arrow out into
the fields--
wind pulses
Jimi’s voice cries out:
Caribou.
Caribou.
Long live
me but through the Caribou.
Caribou.
Caribou.
Long live
me but through the Caribou.
The buck Jimi finds half alive
In a thicket. But look there’s
The Word! The Word!
Can no one see the Word?
The Word speaks
to Jimi,
The Word is Jimi,
but Jimi is not
the Word.
And The Word speaks to Jimi,
sez:
There is a season
For that which is
Caribou.
And the season is
nigh.
The Word asks:
Would
you be so kind as to
join Us behind
the walls of Elysium?
And Jimi sez:
Sure.
The Word sez:
Then
hunt your Caribou before
the week-
end of Labor. Not
after.
And Jimi sez:
OK.
The Word commands Jimi to wake
Up.
Elysium be
damned, Jimi is hungry.
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