soul dredge

my so-named “soul” hangs limp in escrow:

to be delivered to an applicable savior

upon receipt of [salvation].

 

still to be determined:

terms and conditions of said [salvation];

definitions of the countless tiny abstractions

that define the sedimentary "soul".

 

there is the blurred image of a possible need

that sleeps like a dream-stricken fetus

en-astral-utero.

 

he cries for some Jabberwock means

of eternal sustenance;

I can’t provide what he needs.

 

my shuddery index finger

hangs above the skeptical grey keys,

but the tiny god who lives in my mind

has forgotten who to call.

 

delicate corpus at the pit of human intention

dodges behind daily scheduled interferences,

and peeks mischievously at me from behind

mysterious, unmarked tombstones.

 

a Rumplestiltskin scenario spins fool’s gold

from cryptic yarns in the fatherland

of the motherboard church

of a volatile universe called Me.

 

mastodon head tilts, crane arms flail

and pile-driver feet stomp dead earth.

 

perhaps lost-ness is my natural state,

but I can’t grasp the finality,

and God’s voice is a constant dial tone

that interrupts my wingless prayers.

  

all the five-horned metaphors I weave

and incomplete quantum equations

lead me to my gaping gospel hole:

I just don’t know anything.

 

[salvation] tap-dances a nebulous skyline.

I sip coffee and cry alone.

 

Reviews

[Jūdan FyreHeart]

I love this stanza -
my shuddery index finger

hangs above the skeptical grey keys,

but the tiny god who lives in my mind

has forgotten who to call.


As for the rest - the intermingled legal style language is brilliant and frames the rest almost. A fantastic wander through the surreal quest, voyage through the mind with a final snap back to reality.

[Kenneth The Poet]

I love this...you have a way of connecting things together that I can only envy, R.G.