SHAMANIC POET

SHAMANIC POET





I looked at all the auguries, signs and wonders;

Last night I dreamt I drank tea steeped in iron

That could not hold up the World Trade Center.



Every way of knowing is blessed with unauthorized

And forbidden libations.  I am always drinking from

The cup that the government doesn’t want to be sold.



My Siberian shaman friends tells me that as a poet I

Try to climb by my words; however, as I climb this

Way other things seep in; I am porous to the world.



I am so amenable to the world that I leak with a gnosis

I do not want to possess; I seem to know when the

Lynchpin will fall from the wagon of our reality.



The ink I write with seeps through my fingers and

Finds its way to my gastric mucosa; their to be imbibed

By intestinal parasites; all shamanism is a symbiosis



When we meditate we might get unwanted visitations;

We did not think of a badger but one might run by our

Consciousness. Something always wants us to fall to earth.



We all look for pure unadulterated distilled reason; my

Friends that does not exist.  There is no truth when one

Projects outside oneself; there is only shadows of guilt.



We are like fear hogs hanging upside down waiting for

Our throat to be slit for we all know that our throat are

All open to speak words of unfaithfulness to our true Self.



Perhaps if we used no words we could continue on our

Journey upward; but as I said before, we are all receptive to

The badger and the parasites we feel have something to say.


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