Raven King’s Mushrooms

Upon the bovines’ backs the birds do ride.
Most often color of their feathers: white.
Once, I did look to fields and saw him ride.
Black feathers, Raven King on Brahman’s back.
Wings folded and I knew him well enough.
Could see his smirk despite his rigid beak.
Born on a cow, I knew he carried news:

“Man, look to ground, from feces, dung, they grow.
I know revolting, dig in shit of cow.
With practice deft, from patty, you may pluck.
Small, brown, their caps do have distinctive shape.
Blue, white stems, color change when they are bruised.
Remember flower once carried in my beak?
Plants, sacred, healing, gifts of gods bestowed.
This mushroom on top shelf of pharmacy.”

Before I heard his words in croaking voice,
the fungus camouflaged from casual view.
Now that he noted, millions evident.
Picked bushels, would bear back to my abode.

When I ingest they disconnect that node
that frames my world, and helps me orient.
Some grooves in my brain worn by frequent use,
those paths would take me to a spiral down.
Re-frame perspective and would gain new view.
Let loose the story that you tell yourself.
You must release the narrative that binds.
For freedom, you re-frame with nature’s drug.

My friend, with feathers black, does minister.
Gods’ agent, to discharge his faithful call.

 

14.13

When I was young, he took me with him to the court.
We’re not in rags, those who appear before the king.
Miraculous that we were there but pharaoh never was in doubt.
It was not he who said these words. It was my father.
The king demanded sign to prove the truth of words.
My father did what he was told to do.
He cast his staff upon the ground.
I, by his side, had no idea what would occur.
In instant, quick, when struck the ground, became a snake.
His wizards all in practiced unison
held staves aloft to mock my father’s act
and all at once, to ground, they cast them down.
To snakes, their staves, all of them did transform!
The narrative does not at all relate this fact,
but all who witnessed these acts were so shocked.
Or else, would scream or run in terror.
Their shock or circumspection held them still.
A host of snakes now on the floor.
Aaron’s was aggressive. Moved quickly toward the others.
He ate them up. When finished, was completely full.
Snakes of the sorcerers, time to digest.

Now, upon the seashore, not my father’s voice I hear, but his.
From him, whose words seem always crazed.
Would not bear scrutiny but for the fact the words he speaks come true.
As well as snakes, I saw the frogs.
The water, blood, and gnats and flies,
and all those babies dead.
My God, what god is this who claims me as his own?
I cannot turn away but would.
Now on this seashore, to despair, the place where I would flee.
In my mind, all I see are writhing snakes!
How can it not be true?
It’s what I saw and now here with this man.
My father’s brother’s tripping balls.
(You know they knew of all that stuff back in the day.)
Would never follow crazed or drugged,
but damn, those fucking snakes!
Are all I see now in my mind, insane!
He stands there now on shore with arms outstretched.
It never is his staff he gets to use.
Magicians’ means, as tool for their dark arts.
His tools: his hands, those hands that God did make.

Upon my cheek, the east wind starts to blow.

 

Ceiling Fan Attack

So often lie in troubled slumber in the night.
Insomnia: sleep comes only with the morning’s light.
Sometimes the demons also trouble me.
But this night, my tormentor: entropy.
A sudden crash, from slumber, wide awake.
Uncertain source, my thoughts go first to horror!
Wide-eyed peeking from under sheets to door.
See nothing but of course the room is black.
Intruder, evil spirit come to take my soul?
Say a prayer and steel my nerve to turn on light.
At light switch, second horror: no effect.
Light at ceiling, fan now by a single wire hangs.
From mount at ceiling dropped down about three feet.
It dangles now from ceiling o’er my bed.
That, the crashing, that which sent me praying.
“Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, Have Mercy On Me.”
“A Sinner” I omit.  I would emphasize his grace.
A sign of desperate fear I felt while half awake.