The Shaman strikes the ground.

A plume of polarities rises.

Ev’ry tempel, synecdoche

in 4-D. The Jeweler’s loupe

sees the microcosm in death.

And the forkéd tongue of the Lover’s

hum, with nocturnal throes unearthed

in his throat, whispers hypocrisies,

now that time has caught up with all

the wisdom he’s heard through his life.


The Shaman strikes the ground.

The cracks traverse the loam

and the mineral wake prepares

the faults for eruptions. Yet,

from under the spectral black

emerges the broken howls

of laughter from the Joker’s grin,

the fundament false – all or nothing –

now masking the pyrrhic sound

of the Singer’s silent plea.


The Shaman strikes the ground.

From the ancient Farmer’s thumb

the roots of sin simmer and rise,

these logs transformed, the burls

and burdens of choice. An echo

echoes chosen moral faults.

“For the good of the group,” they say.

The Preacher thinks that fire

will sear that wood as a cross,

yet only enkindles his house.


The Shaman strikes the ground.

A commanding presence usurps

the wood. The Dictator bellows

his rhetoric of unification.

A thousand atomic selves,

aligned by the Democriter’s grimace.

Yet freedom strokes her noose,

and she hangs her pluralities

in no order and eradicates

their maps of outmoded conquests.


The Shaman strikes the ground.

His aerial eyes, fashioned as wise,

a lachrymal ambit down crashes

and up, vertical, sees the rise

of the Violator fueling his bile

in th’engines orienting power,

the pumps and pistons the lead

of a dance round which the Appeaser

staccatos deeper into the stratus.

Now closer to madness, and so home.

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