John the Baptist Unchained


John the Baptist Unchained

The world is filled with so many drops
And so many drops remain,
The mountains coronet the realms of St. John
A rainbow, out there in his name,
The universe is a wonder
Filled with wonderful riffs and refrains
A masterful vibrating myth,
Existence itself – a vibrating song,
Like an angel filled moon beaming kiss,
Or a box of rain
He has counted the number of hairs o our heads
(Not many)
That still grow out of each artful tank,
He’s God
He knows,
But nobody knows
What’s rattling around
Or pretends to now pretend it meant
That our individual scintilla of nothing
Meant something to some one, or thing, or time,
At some point
At any point,
If need be
And who’s to say it’s not, or can’t be,
Or didn’t,
The truth is not as rosy as we’d like to always paint,
That it’s not our fate,
Ou gift not refundable,
I just said, thanks man,
Thanks allot,
I’m one with the program now,
Nothing done hereafter
Under the pirate compliant statutes in geodesic code concubine,
Otherwise known as wild synapse wineberry passion
Moon dust ring of fire random hang up charter,
Even if you’re poverty stricken,
The buzzards still buzz
The angels still weep,
The corporations still require their
Ever more needful fix
Of info-wealth stealth, control and acquisition,
You know, that old subversive tear jerker:
“First we mine your energy and time,
Then we’ll require your plasma to grind spattering down!”
Sweet temptation’s timeless wine bliss,
Swashbuckling, coming up
We’ve got to prepare for your ultimate
Swash buckling swish,
A finer vintage you’ll never uncover,
As do the hyacinths,
Ablaze in the labyrinths
In untold treasures of ecstasy,
The sighing, crying multi-universal mojo-jubilee-spree,
Of lucid wisdom shorn;
Individually unique as born
Manifested and brilliant love on fire with flown,
With their own keys and inner gateway traces,
Their own shiny jewels and criminal erasers,
Their own dancing static
Stairway stasis burning red demographic fire,
All reaching, all describing, all sparkling,
A swirling blowing bowing, borrowing,
Rolling flowing magnificent magnificat folds,
To the humble blue humility in the tangents,
In silence
In the requisite atomic weight of grace,
n the requisite atomic dance of fate,
There’s no deeper wine than how
Your pentagram prays and pays,
Ancient and newborn?
Than the precious body and blood of the bread of life,
Or on the flesh of such fine young candidates,
In the deeply green wires of an ancient apple red thrush,
Or in the fruit of the fruit of a non-burning bush?
The land they decreed “Sacred Ground”
Barefoot and dropped with the drip of the bright,
Buzzing amber honeybee’s flood,
Can you boast that you’ve solved what is love’s final dream fate,
On the weight of his somber red crosses of unforeseen weight,
As flows the miracle
From the fractured blinding thunderstruck
Lightening bolted banyan tree rift,
As are the golden leaves frantic with summer
Healing joy’s permanent white walrus swoosh,
Fleeing with the swirling hurricane wander-lust streams of praise,
As was written in the honied seven hour kiss of dawning depth,
Burning through diamonds, and a couple of palatine holy spirit baptismal,
Morning fountains, wires,
Bouquets of fragrant pure radiant compassion
In the subtle blue grape amethyst treasure,
O Nanak,
How insignificant is this man?

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