Anima Corporalis

There is a pure essence 

Holy Man? 
Behold, 
Feel it in heart and faith 

Medicine Man? 
Behold, 
See it on screen and vial 

Both are wrong. 
Over the cadaver of every body 
I stand, the open-soul surgeon, 
Armed with the scalpel 
Of purity and liberation. 
I wield my instrument with fury –precision, 
And slice these feeble bodily chains, 
Pull apart the bars, break the lock. 

Uncage it. 
This beautiful bird, 
Painted in the feathers of true immortality. 
Let it soar majestic, 
Not upward but 
Inward, 

Let that fog of particles drip down threads 
That no holy man can fathom, 
And climb up ropes 
That no medicine man can see 

Anima Corporalis 
It knows the most beautiful face 
Is on the clock of the universe. 
Behold, 
The volcano from beneath, 
The lightning from above, 
The sunshine from the nightside. 
Behold, 
Those voices unwilled, 
chimes of truth, 
melodies of beyond. 

It feels the real motion, 
And it knows that its old cage 
Was always a rotting bag. 

Not a pilgrim on a journey, 

But a mere germ 
Stuck to a stone, 
Hurled, 
through the 
Superficial expanse, 
The great frosty black.


What I Do When They Found Out What I Allegedly Did and What THEY Should've Done But Didn't Do

I drive as I can and always could regardless of what they say or read or type in a pissed-off frenzy all over the goddamn state

where stickycrimsonribbons shoot through logic and bind up sense

to the place where impatience and festering rage are made flesh

or stone rather (and glass and paper and ink and everything else in the way)

and I wait. After I’m done waiting. . . . . . I try waiting a little.

. . . . . . After I tried that, I decided to wait.


Still pretty pissed. I left.


Now at Lucky Star, I calm myself with some Hot n’ Sour soup, with no mushrooms. The kind folks at these places always remove the mushrooms for me. I’m here because someone close to me once told me that the foods contained here had healing properties. The ailment he was referring to was a hangover. I had one of sorts. Slightly different. The aftermath of anger, not alcohol consumption, was what I needed to remedy. It worked. I was now calm, and far too preoccupied with blowing on my soup and slurping down that spicy, broth-soaked tofu and pork to think about why I happened to be in this particular neighborhood. In hindsight,

it’s not all that surprising, because


I prolly drove past half the neighborhoods in this goddamn country and still have yet to find out if it was in vain,

because just cuz I forgot about the stickycrimsonribbons doesn’t mean they went away and

because I’m still waiting to find out if a different place
where impatience and festering rage are made flesh
or stone rather (and glass and paper and ink and everything else in the way)

has received word from the former.

So I wait.


I wish I had a gigantic pair of scissors. I wouldn’t bring the whole system down. Just that illogical stuff that holds it together. Someone ought to. Cut them. Peel them off. A world without stickycrimsonribbons is a world worth saving. Otherwise, who cares?