Author Information
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.
