Sunday, March 12, 2017

Lay Believers of the Metaphysical




















Lay Believers of the Metaphysical


The world keeps talking shit, spreading havoc,
seismic quandries, everyone quarantined in separate
bodies, forced to share a native language, fathers
and sons, mothers and daughters, how lonely
this movie is, its chorus of ash and salt, the word
happiness a pebble in our mouths, what we cannot
swallow, and yet nothing will break it. It’s a mystery
to have gotten this far, every step more blind than
the last, courthouses full, psych wards overflowing
with teens, and yet daybreak with its secret knock
sometimes wakes us into new understandings, enough
to drag the mechanisms of our muscles out of bed,
to forget the scars and dark wounds experience
opens and cauterizes in an endless cycle. Moments
are dress rehearsals. Hold the applause. I harbour
the nameless and try to drag it out into the light.
We, lay believers of the metaphysical, need a raise
before we are all out of a job. Self-knowledge is on
furlough. The ersatz is appraised. Raven or dove?
It changes the prophecy. Don’t bother answering
the door. It’s just the unseeable playing ding-dong
ditch. The miniscule and the large are truant. Ruffle
their glitzy pages. Master or apprentice? Depends on
which hall of mirrors. The ticker-tape says you lost
the whole sum. The zodiac is as useful a clock as any.
May I take up five minutes of your time? I have
this brochure and a message of grave importance.
Ignore the cardinal’s red flame bashing itself against
the window. It’s not a symbol of living or dying.
Keep this one fallen feather if only to be sure.

By Chris Banks

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