They were always there.
I climbed past them dozens of times, unknowing.
Cut from the massif,
threatening in their way–
alive with guttural voices like wolves.
It took the deepest rain
and drifting skeins of cloud
to make them stand out
and pierce my wretched
wandering mind with wonder.
A homeless person
sitting on the sidewalk.
Another homeless person walking by
gives the first one a quarter,
then turns to me–
It isn’t that corporations are people,
it’s that people become corporatistas.
Stockholm syndrome is a mild
form of this affliction.
Mind and synapse, instinct and
marrow all turn inside out
until Santa at the company Christmas
party is just that–all bag and no man.
One hundred miles from Tonopah, Nevada, a narrow, unmapped canyon holds five hundred years of Shoshone dreaming. The arching stone walls are alive with petroglyphs of the Great Mother’s sacred yoni.
The odor of sage here is so strong it smells like all the world’s grandmothers are baking turkey. The sense of place is overwhelming.
Some three hundred miles away is the nowhere where nuclear weapons were born and where Robert Oppenheimer “became death, the destroyer of worlds.”
Today the Canyon of the Vaginas, earth’s birth canal, lies waiting for who or what, comes next into the world.
Send out six citizens to be slaughtered and we will spare your city!
Stumbling in our nooses and chains, from awed inner light into darkness, resigned in our terror, we went.
But their queen’s unborn child spared us! It would be a bad omen to kill us, it said.
300 years later our spirits froze in the lamplight in front of the sculptor Rodin.