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Bring the ancient monster back.
Watch the leviathan
Rape a lamb
And birth a myth;
Or lie with a lion and
Mother a religion:
Teach us the logic
Come and shake
The earth and topple
Our steeples; we never
Feared a nativity as much as
We loved your enormity;
So strong as to chide the ten million gods
In the unsounded deep, in the East, while you stir the water
And panic our shores.
This every wise man knows,
Yet the brilliant women
Still laugh at us.
Modest Medea, just last week, heard some fool utter the following:
“Intent is motivated by undercurrents of fascination.”
It’s not Greek nor was intended to be
(it does not fit their idea of mind),
And so, bemused,
She sat under a volcano waiting for sustenance,
And killed each child individually;
Had to be prepared.
But no one was hungry
Who loved her two sons so much that she
Made Medea mad with jealousy;
Such recipes always lead to disaster.
And then there was Hedda
So angered at the substance within her that a new
Golem, kicking and screaming, was born by
Parthenogenesis from her head.
This new remnant set a table for three.
They inspired psalms about hypostasis and faith
That are still being sung today.
Yet it is a dark time
Words have been abbreviated to sustain
The atomic weight of our guilt,
Which fits sweetly on the head of a pin
As it should,
Along with the dancing angels.
This is so as to not cause pain among the villagers
Who have suffered enough.
Silence is helpful, too, in covering bureaucratic stains
When counting lies.
Non nobis, Domine
Composed in solitude,
Inside auditory spheres,
Beyond the multitudes who dance in fire,
Where everything breaks forth in strange eruptions:
Passion and distemper
That allows gracious idiots, like me,
To play the final note;
Which lingers from blood to blood
Generation upon generation
Our stardom assured.