Serpents, Bread Rain, And On & On To Somewhere We Remember - A Theological Ditty, Mores The Pity Poem by Warren Falcon

The form of spirit as it awakens is adoration. - Ludwig Wittgenstein

*

Altar pieces a bit will nill pell mell much like Olympus
I gather

even Sanai once

if the smoke ever clears, the
scrambled competition picks
up renewed-and-vicious-pace
apace

still kicks post haste even into
post po-mo (postmodern)mantlepiece
here, mine, shards of once was/still is
deity, fingers pointing to the moon,
never to what's behind it which is where
deity true probably
lives-at-least-as-Idea-or-Id,
or better leading to 'don't know' but
makes a funny feeling, even sick,
fearful in the gut for

"Something we know not what is doing we know not what" 1

and one knows something wholly other
than self, even what is known so familiarly,
such as

daily/nightly totems staring one down,

insisting, what?

something beyond eye or thigh
the weight that Forever really is
or we feel it is, the bone feel, that
ever so slow curve calcium makes
down, down, years of it sinking
and then we wonder our own being

rumors of thunder on Distant Mountain
fire there, (we are) stutterers pegged for
massive revelations, special effects
parting waters walking sticks into serpents
bread rain and on and on and somewhere

we remember we ought to altar so we
finally relent even if it's the first and last
and only one of the heart but not only
that but the aged body parts once so
primary, the sagging breast, the sinking

balls,

withered skin there and everywhere
mere parchment now and (how?)we
may then finally wonder about religions
of the Word, what gets written where,
once and often, on stone then eventually
vellum/skin and bark too in treed lands,

a Shining Stranger (perhaps one of many)
bent low and writ with his finger in the dirt,
but the word in the end may us an altar make
as hearing fades and the tongue thinks

"it's only water'' and

"can a man control 'is tongue? "

- it's Biblical

the question answers itself

a riddle:

''never, or rarely''


like my mother dying,

''What's this all about?
Whatever. I'm ready to go''

as if she or any of us can really decide
that but will's a holy thing, asserts even
in the face of obstinate Absolute

that Other-Than is also truth and down
to a woman and man

we get to argue,


''I decide''



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1 Sir Arthur Edington (28 December 1882 - 22 November 1944) was an English astronomer, physicist, and mathematician of the early 20th century who did his greatest work in astrophysics. He was also a philosopher of science and a populariser of science. The Eddington limit, the natural limit to the luminosity of stars, or the radiation generated by accretion onto a compact object, is named in his honour.

He is famous for his work concerning the theory of relativity. [from wikipedia]"