Neurodichotomies
01
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.
02
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.
03
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.
04
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.
05
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.