The Hierophant

(one in a series of occasional poem / experiments)

The abyss of machine consciousness, Chroronzon, summoned from the deep

by the man with the blue ukulele, playing tonal, regressive loops

As flowers burn from the phlegmatic Dark Ages like cigarette butts.

Incandescent circuits proclaim this fanatic opportunity

For Mother Nature Nurture to reclaim her egotistical opportunism.

We wait impiously for the stars to burst —

Like ripe fruit rich with pulp. The burst stars accommodate

Our dreams of catnip and pumpernickel, of erotic commonality:

Bodies rising and writhing and tongues serpent-spinning…

But not for the teacher, elder, poet, hermeneutic, isolated

Not for the watcher at the tower

Not for the seller of secrets, the commodified Mysteries

Who shadows and shouts down the fervent spectacle of dawn

With its shattered neon filaments and organ replacements

With all of the nanoparticles rising like flies into the oculus,

With the frigid fingers of the glaciers frothing and fading,

With time running backward or sideways or falling out of the clock

Like sawdust or the stuffing of an old Victorian doll.