SSB is pleased present Austė, a featured artist in the upcoming Love Among the Ruins Show at Howl Happening.
The Vest
Nectanebus—geomancer—the worst sort of
Stinking heap—envious, good for nothing,
Craves women, Riches, power.
Has no way of making a living
Except by the phrase,
“Reveal your desires to God and Pray!”
And, “Alas! I lost it,
But Di-vi-na-tion told me where it was.”
Trickery, Falsehood, Deception never induced a
Debill’s scorn … Frankly, he and his rank are nuisances—
Set fires—burn paper symbols transmitting gifts
To Heaven’s throng.
The wisdom of Nectanebus can be condensed
Into one path of Irrelevance—
Compact with Demon,
Along with troubles such an arrangement brings.
In those days, plenty of money and jewels
Could be found underground,
If only one cared and knew where and when to look.
Nectanebus—skilled in unearthing Money?
What a joke!
Wuz he?
Dismiss not an endidad on account of you
Being wiser by centuries.
Too much has been forgotten,
Cast aside as insignificant, useless, too involved.
Every day this catalogue of poetic beliefs,
Customs—a torrent of agreeable information.
Allow me! Be not a Baker if your head be of Butter.
Butter Head, Butter Head always cold,
Longed to be in a kitchen looking
In on roaring fires.
Today, I say, “irrelevant,”
But in those days,
Debills and demons abounded.
Deliberate projections of uncontrollable impulses,
They were treated as independent Beings
Capable of wreaking whatever they wished.
Appeasement—a way to get by these entités
—Was often required of timid citizens
With no time for psychic negotiation
Far more complex than sacrifice.
“Stride by, Psychic Rabble”
Stand clearly on the side of those
Who are always on the quest for their next meal.
There iz Debill, there is God.
Appeasement of the restless spirits
Of properly-looked-after Ancestors included a second,
Third, even tenth burial.
The bones are cleaned and stored in clay pots.
The departed spirit remains in the vicinity,
Retaining a clear avenue of communication.
How much of a relationship with one who has passed on
Must one have?
Nothing, nothing, nothing at All!
You needn’t ever visit bones or leave offerings
If you are not an Ancestor Worshipper!
If you feel compelled to have a place in your home
Where You pray or light candles, then your life is busier
And more meaningful than your neighbor’s,
Who would find it a bother.
Whether faith brings you your outlandish hat,
Or you fall in a fit possessed by a spirit god—
You are true to your nature and God bless You!
It is impossible to have the word—is it a word?—“GOD”
In a sentence or exclamation,
Without being transported into the “Godly Sphere,”
Hoping that with God, every moment shall be as warm
As a cashmere vest.
Lungs fill with God as verily as You and God are one.
Refuse God by exhaling,
The Debill will excuse this failing.
Are there rooms for you in the “fair palaces of heaven”?
As above, so below no longer seems trite and overused
In works of minor disrepute.
The citizen who has been counted
Relies on the weekly salute.
Congregations march by on the apex of a Hymn.
It emanates into the eyes of the singer from the hymnal
Without additional theology.
The man or woman from God
Speaks about the Invisible to us.
How powerful it is to be Invisible
Aspire to the mountaintop,
Address Nations!
A theatre of Heaven—nothing is Secret,
Except that which you do not understand.
Has someone said “God” was consciousness,
One and the same? “God” is “LOVE”
—The foundation of everyt’ing—
If one understands love equals sacrifice.
Human to animal, how many, how many
Have been to the sacrificial altar never to return?
All for the sake of rain.
It is difficult to get away
From this model of religion if you
Dwell in rural regions.
Give up struggle. Spare life. Roll it
Down the burning steps of that pyramid.
From lips blood draw.
Anoint ears of the Idol.
In the city—CLOTHES—fashion,
Simply signify change of season.
Each item of clothing communicates with
And about the season. If you are the sort of person
Who wears clean clothes, has a weskit or two
from the snappy fox tailor … well, there you are,
Not a stinking heap of rags like Nectenabus,
Who likes to say,
“The cloak is new, only the holes are old.”
“How many Soul-destroying Errors have you committed?”
Inquires the geomancer,
Making Ui very uncomfortable.
“AN infinite amount, be assured,
Will tangle you up.”
There are times when Ui has to trick himself into thinking,
Rather than looking with eyes completely round,
Seeing nothing but a beautiful Christmas tree!
It takes up as much room as an overly tall woman
In a ceremonial gown. Really, it is an honor to have
This Goddess of Green Noodles as distraction
From cold weather and sparely-lit evenings.
She dances! Oh! How she dances!
Oh, it really iz embarrassing.
When Ui sinks into the corner of a couch,
Not far from the shimmering holiday noodles,
He hopes the tale will go something like this:
Deep in the thickest part of a trembling forest,
Stood a small cottage. T’was night,
A lantern glowed gold.
By the outdoor fireplace knelt a stranger
Whose self was populated by two souls
Charmed with each other,
Literally intertwined. Well, now!
The refined stranger was a disreputable,
But not a thoroughly bad man,
Not yet thirty years of age. Next to him
Lay a shabby cardboard case
From which he took sealed letters and
One by one flopped them into roiling flames.
You, dear reader,
Are worthy of a splend-d-d-id FEW-ture!
Here we are, just the two of us,
Walking along the outer wall of the city,
Not knowing that we have become spirits,
Carrying candles thick and round as one’s thigh.
I have drunk a quantity of wine and you
carry a letter brought by we know not whom,
Nor to whom. An envelope addressed
To no one in particular, no one at all.
END
