A Poem; “Riff in Am7”

by writeyeranezine

I am part Buffalo.

Extinct. Timeless.

Forever breathing.

The role of philosopher,

as per my limited understanding,

is to pick pockets of proscribed history

in order to unlearn the lessons

taught to our elders by fascists.

I am no engineer.

Science. Mathematics.

Faith forever aflame.

The role of therapist,

as per my limited understanding,

is to illuminate the illusory nature of our

physical understanding of the universe,

taught to us by our grandmothers.

I am no shaman.

No body. No soul.

Just energy and neurones

firing in the face of forty years

of knowledge,

disguised as understanding,

the forever mask of the true self.

Taught by no-one.

Mirrors finally break.

There is no bad luck.

Just graft. Craft.

Sisyphus is happy.

The politics of identity is boring

when staring down the barrel of the void.

No existential crisis in the abyss,

just deep, ancient ghosts cradling me

in their otherness for eternity.

I am no you.

Me. Him.

Them. Whatever, holy man,

lead the flock to slaughter.

Starvation awaits the greedy,

turning tables at Spinoza’s gaff.

As Jesus and Buddha laugh off their asses,

some merely weep.

It’s all fool’s gold.

I am all of us,

we’re ugly,

known that forever.

Look at the vessel;

scarred by home blade,

consensual violence,

take yer best shot,

don’t be a fucking pussy.

Like Mexican food,

we fold differently,

but spices give flavour

to the driest of beans.

Look what we hold.

Past. Present.

Future, forever,

in our hands and,

with it we can create

something beautiful,

if we stop.