Shannon Ongaro: Maria Sabina, Terrence McKenna and André Breton Walk into a Bar.

Fall '12 TOC

The Rabbit spread three cards on the table before them.

3 of Cups
Knight of Swords
The Moon (so arrogant)

 

Maria Sabina's saint children gathered around the table talking quietly and joking among themselves while Terrance rocked back in his chair stroked his chin thoughtfully and said to André I like your stories, mon frère and André began to chant a mysterious little ditty about sweet peas in the springtime and girls with long golden legs.

           

The become dream becomes vision;

the become vision becomes poetry;

the become poetry becomes the sacred acts.

 

The spoken silent maneuvers
a woven knowing about how to honor the dead
and nourish cracked hearts.

 

Maria Sabina builds and breaks these laws:

 

One of Similarity, one of Contagion.

 

Maria Sabina cooks up the words

           

the smoothing song words
the cooling song words
the laughing song words
the brave song words

 

the song words of white flowers in the bath
and delicious candies to sweeten our skins.

                       

Into the palm of my hand,
I place a glance.
My freckles, my grimace,
holy panic, steaming profanity
glorious resolve to see myself etched in the cosmos
just as I carve myself into the lines of my palm.

 

Gary Snyder busts through the door shouting:

 

what is the name of your water

what is the name of your mountain

 

Then this other guy, some dude,
saddles up to the bar, wraps his fingers around a whisky glass,
says to no one in particular:

 

Magic?
Many try it.
Few do it well.
No one knows why.

                   

The cards went flying around the room, candlelight shot into the night.
Scorpion and crayfish scampered back.

 

The poets, the healers, and the ones who toy with language
fill the room. The muse knows. The muse listens.
But are the poets listening, after all?

::Next::

 

 

Not Enough Night
Not Enough Night
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