Hiding Eggs Theater

Because Mid-Modernity puts its paws to Holes,

Βλέπετε οὖν ἀκριβῶς πῶς περιπατεῖτε (Eph. 5:15).

For the runny-nosed pup with invidious distinctions,
 snuffles for a master inside a model lure—
 where Being is money's hollow conceit alone:
  absolutized,
  canonized,
  idolized,

and reduced.

For the individual that is a radical isolate,
 alienate from heartmaking and keeping
 by shrunken froms—
  severed from spirit
  by Philistine simplification
  and profiteering:

a jawbone’s uncompromising banshee,
 summoning dreams of ancestral bonds.

Away from me all systemizers and suffusers.

“Let the dead bury the dead,”
 and so Jesus said it,

ours entombing past
 that sun guns
our awareness of stun—
 in silence, a sneer detected:

Dracula—logician, dotard,
 twin fangs ramifying, exsanguinating by
 opposed categgoricals
  toward small cracked (h)ends;

Frankenstein too—knifed taxidermies,
 identity-making, ripping living wholes,
 jamming together mix-matched treads
  for fanged cats, partisan monsters, pharaoh’s purr.

And don’t forget the zombies—
 lurching the lambent by resentment frozen,
 drool scoping vengeance, open mouth, closed lung to the ambient.

I’m rused to youstirring,
A ro(o/a)stery never arriving,
A wry, balled irae,
Instead by columned and liquored peers
Of hills northern spying

At our diseurs and diseuses 
To propose and index is to reveal
a code for civilization
solsticeries:

The Alt-acad Rootstocks,
 bent ecstasies of Dennetted, untenting oases,
 climinal pottery—
such verse dashed against cisterns and walls
 to waken past the necessary dawn,

its White-Jacketed Orders,

Societies of decorum—militarist gloom
dispensed in codified hierarchy,
layers lacquered to feign embodied security—
the fragrance of manors,
and servants in bleached constraint—

all at the price of fragmentation,
psychic and desperate,
aching sentiment elided
by consequence.

Cradled early, taste is carved—
fluff and feather, kernel’s cowl,
canapés drifting in the breeze
that bore the hatch.

Thus we slid—
from playground’s bluff
to the lifelong dark night
of the machine-making soul,
repudiating every telos
with a smile glazed in ceremony:

a Tommed Holiday
 under googly eyes’ dysvision,

its experience of simulation
 is mirroring dyscognition,
  absent coherent hermeneutics,
save radical detachment from metaphysics—
 whence one is given
  into the shadow singularity
   of ravening machination,
    striving for its remnant and determining recollect.

So throats its Coriolis wattle-twist to port,
and for a Goebbelled, gobbled möbius
 goblined by star boarding-ed
  axonal, vatic reverie?

I chant this loud for you, God,
 that it pierce the strangle
 and modes of synthetic venom that squelch.

By Bible and cartridge
 and cross-necklace spouse up front—
mortality sardonicus,

breath of brown,
 a bow scraped turtled cello,
 seeking a Gulf of America advantage, wheezing

until heart-vanged by gravity
 into service-berthing a haven-hand,
 stacking kindling
 from pyric absolutizers

to blazon vectors,
shifting seasons
 by vers-ed fawnings

and re(c)lines
 of pastelated dusk.

~Douglas Blake Olds