VIII. It Returns Words to the Body and the Earth, It tells Us What We Are
We placed animism in two dimensions
like a poor sketch of living,
black beans scattered on parched earth,
an unploughed field of white
paper for farmers of gods.
It was fertile at first, divinities grew there
and following them came scavenging priests.
Their vestments were tight,
these Clerics of Text,
they proclaimed their discovery of depth:
money, history, genitals,
culture, politics, difference.
From the fringe of society comes the Shaman,
dweller in the between,
searching for spirit and bones,
teeth, and totems
high enough to throw blood
on the vampires of the moon,
the shadows of the Clerics.
The Shaman teaches incantations
evoking the body
like four dimensional gestures.
Not gestures about,
but gestures of.
Not a lotus that means something.
Just a lotus
blooming.
The Shaman sees the stripes of the Tiger
in his mind, moving with the light
and vibrating shadows,
intimate connections with plants of the jungle
like the intimacy of her nose and the air
of the jungle, her ears
and the sound of the jungle,
her jaws and belly and the jungle flesh
and blood, all lovers.
Humans taught by the Shaman
work intimately with the flesh of the jungle, giving it
voice like birds and tigers do,
animated words and sounds
nothing more than nerves
and blood and flesh of the jungle. The human
makes a sound like a bird, and the mate of the bird alights
in a tree nearby. The human knows
Tigers love this tasty morsel.
He listens for giant paws, then lets loose the arrow.
He approaches the bird as if approaching his own mother.
He breaks a leg of the bird and lets blood dribble onto his finger.
He smears some of the blood on his forehead, and some
on the tree where the dying bird fell.
There was no bird.
There was no hunter.
What sacrifice do you offer
on the altar of That I Am?
like a poor sketch of living,
black beans scattered on parched earth,
an unploughed field of white
paper for farmers of gods.
It was fertile at first, divinities grew there
and following them came scavenging priests.
Their vestments were tight,
these Clerics of Text,
they proclaimed their discovery of depth:
money, history, genitals,
culture, politics, difference.
From the fringe of society comes the Shaman,
dweller in the between,
searching for spirit and bones,
teeth, and totems
high enough to throw blood
on the vampires of the moon,
the shadows of the Clerics.
The Shaman teaches incantations
evoking the body
like four dimensional gestures.
Not gestures about,
but gestures of.
Not a lotus that means something.
Just a lotus
blooming.
The Shaman sees the stripes of the Tiger
in his mind, moving with the light
and vibrating shadows,
intimate connections with plants of the jungle
like the intimacy of her nose and the air
of the jungle, her ears
and the sound of the jungle,
her jaws and belly and the jungle flesh
and blood, all lovers.
Humans taught by the Shaman
work intimately with the flesh of the jungle, giving it
voice like birds and tigers do,
animated words and sounds
nothing more than nerves
and blood and flesh of the jungle. The human
makes a sound like a bird, and the mate of the bird alights
in a tree nearby. The human knows
Tigers love this tasty morsel.
He listens for giant paws, then lets loose the arrow.
He approaches the bird as if approaching his own mother.
He breaks a leg of the bird and lets blood dribble onto his finger.
He smears some of the blood on his forehead, and some
on the tree where the dying bird fell.
There was no bird.
There was no hunter.
What sacrifice do you offer
on the altar of That I Am?