Thou Art the Man
Electrodes raking the brain for qualities,
spring memories’ spew from deep buried autumnal synapses,
tined pustules atop algo’s magma intruding its remit,
as we await the condemned systems’ royalties,
still and silent before the screaming.
For a poem to ethnogram the bust of illusions--
a people’s probabilistic texts that flies from reality--
it must be encountered through the arena of covenant
and shattered, like Goliath's temple
and made delirium, like Belshazzar's walled off perceptions from his people
idiogrammatically (all are indicted, some are released).
I, II, III.
Whence an ethnos may its image innovating recover from
that ashed stultification, the bema of Pilate,
to emerge with recollected facility
and with language and orientation,
that recovers
unslimed from computered conceits of nostalgia's determining and thickened reason.
David: thou wert the man, but reframed by time that reverses crime.
--Douglas Blake Olds
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