Scribe Merchant

L1090876Life is a gift from Death

I am from the wingless bird people

A migrating shape-shifting scribe merchant

And this is my story

 

In the beginning when the first stars turned on

The black holes where illuminated

This is why you don’t know what you’re looking for

When you’re trying to find something

You might come across  an ancient reflection of yourself

That makes you feel young and alive

A new profound voice among all the over rated

Spectacles shouting for attention

But this is a dark trap

Who is it that you attend to?

What is lost in you

Is lost to the earth and me

 

When us birds stand on top of other animals

It is to see what they see

To know what they know

To gain in shared wisdom

Without competition

We stand lightly empathic

Not heavy like other insatiable beings

 

When I am inside the bear

I don’t care for academic accolades in acronyms

I don’t like cities or my picture being taken

I might say wild things to throw people off

Controlled foundations of their paradigm

 

Sometimes my role as a psychopomp

Involves odd activities

It’s not a chosen profession

But I do like to help out

When my eyes grow longer

Odin likes to visit me

Mostly we talk about humans turning away from nature

And conjuration

He uses some of my black feathers for an eye patch

For which he is always grateful

 

As far as I can remember I have always been homeless

Sparingly I pull words from the sky when I need their nutrients

You can’t live on words alone

I am being forced to try it though

Between the syllables vowels and pigments for paint

I find ways to survive and my weight is still sufficient

I even have an extra bit of flesh for leaner times

When people knock on my drafty door

I pretend everything is normal

I make the correct facial contortions

Refrain from ruffling my feathers

My accent is a dead giveaway but I use a few local words

To make the greeter feel better although I have the safe skin color

You can always count on them seeing right through me

I have lost touch with mass consensus of normal and it with me

As I have said I am homeless but an outcast too

The lowest common denominator is talking about the weather

But even this raises the eyebrow too high and tightens the jaw

It’s not just my bird beard or foreignness it’s my soul that’s unwanted

Because they can’t trust their own I suppose

I once brought up how there’s only a few animals left and less trees

I won’t waste my words anymore for their perplexed undertow of anger

 

I am one of the last of my kind

The rest have gone off to fame or obscurity

Either one will damage you

In these fallen times everything I create has the shortest lifespan

I have three days to make a dent in the empire

The mortality rate of each integral artifact is dangerous

If they trace my work back to the soul source I am damned

It won’t be long before I’m found out I have to keep mobile

I am force fed a day to day account of the apocalypse

And remain semi detached to what I bear witness to

 

To keep sane I have put myself into a few of my poems and there I live

Gargantuan journeys under the mud and flame

A team of archeologists unearthed my damaged spirit

Three thousand years from now they watch my soul rise

Over their spades picks and bull dozers

Over the seven sitka spruce plastic turf bags and wind turbines

Over the world leaders border guards and terrorist

Over the penniless homeless writing and painting strange things

Getting visits from curious wingless birds like myself

On vacation for a short spell but long enough to leave instructions

 

Although  I have learned from a distant master of muse conjuring

And thought the teaching sound

I failed miserably and had to go my own way

And so should you but if you should pay attention to what I say here

You will resonate with the universal principles bestowed from your own source

 

Find a burning sky that is not perceptibly on fire in your world

With your trained eye pick out only the illuminated letters from the back smoke

Forge their shapes and sounds into a word immortally strong

Tender and malleable words with muscle heart and soul

Find other adjoining words that relate and make each other feel good

While respecting entitlements of sovereignty

Words of a fiery mix creating hybrids of your DNA that draw from other worlds

Words that won’t wash away or cool off with distilling voices of the critic and novice

Words used as trusted bridges between flesh and soul without wounds to drown

Occasionally they must canter sensually for the listener

But overall they must arc like predators and sink like raucous death

They must not smell after being in a cave for three years that’s the test

They must be able to abide in solitude and deep silence indefinitely

In order to ripen and grow an olive orchard in ancient Greece

In the midst of our future drought the chisel and ax of pop culture

Your words will be stolen in the current era count on it

But still you must apprentice to their freedom while holding them together

You will have to keep reusing words in different ways for the right burnish

But let no one know how you sweated for the lustre to light your way

Keep you poems secret until the vampires recede at dawn

Don’t bother asking Y the W’s fly and the X’s run

You have no control they have a life of their own

When you die again and again whole poems will come by and pay you respects

Even the ones you thought no good and crumpled up

Luckily there’s no sin or punishment in their religion

Some of your favorites might decide to migrate with you

Choose carefully what these poems say

In your next life you’ll be living inside them

Some poems have tried to escape my right turn

Only to fall into an attempt at prose an accidental mess

Keep your words clear and quickened in inner rites of passage

Let them out to scream once in a while for being so suppressed

You don’t really have a choice in being a poet you will have no friends

Lonely letters and crowded words decimated unfurled repeat

Some might turn on you while others give epiphanies and euphonies while sharing coffee

Being a lone poet is being wild inside an overly domesticated home

Keep to yourself and let it rip when the owners are away

If they ever invite you back act confused but not so much that they have you hospitalized

U and I is calling me now leading me astray but there’s something I need to get across

Have you ever had the experience of a poem getting inside you and changing you

So watch what poems you create and read

It took me thirteen hours one day to find myself again

I came back perched on top of a sitka spruce

With skin bags full of medicinal herbs and spices

A note was pierced and resting on my talon

It read wingless crow merchant with the deerless queens blessings

Grant passage across borderlands upon request

He must return to the aviary by noon

Or be escorted under civil arrest

All are obliged

 

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