We know now what’s wrong
with the human race.
It’s going through withdrawals
from a drug that hasn’t yet been discovered.
A hit of bliss so intense that it has sent
tachyons screaming back in time, infecting us all
with a subatomic genetic jones shaking flesh
in the hologram of
All Is One.
There is no cure, there is no kicking
this monkey that cannot die.
The only hope is to find the formula quick,
cook it up and fix.
We’ve set up The Pyramid scheme
to keep humanity’s violent hallucinations at bay,
a coterie of chemists cooking
temporary pharmaceutical soothes, mindless
jobs to pay for it all, and prisons
to cage those catching on.
We run this kindly con
until we can elix the true fix,
before it’s too late,
and we lick all meaning
from our collective lips.
He rolls up slow,
white limo, white suit, black sun glasses,
I step in, slam the solid door
against the evening sun, shake hands,
meet on the level the man with the plan,
a brotherhood of light workers where borders
He pours me a scotch as we smooth along
the highway. I set the briefcase down,
he places a hand on my shoulder, says “You
are the best we’ve ever had at crossing borders.”
I nod, knowing it is my ocean eyes, how I lock them,
give a little psychic push that makes the pawns at any gate
remember seeing blue sky
from the crib, and the taste of their mother’s
Behind tinted windows we race
back up the coast, the western
horizon shimmering alizarin crimson
as the sun dips into the radioactive pacific.
Our time is running short. In the briefcase
the remains of another failed test
batch for the sun blasted dancing
masses, another sample of only
madness and nails gnashing at sloughing
skin and itching rashes.
Our altruistic efforts fund a lordly life
that numbs our necessary pain, suites
in tall buildings to gain long perspective,
tantric blasts rape our way to gnosis of the future,
fast cars to outrun the sun, to forget for a
moment our justified crimes, to forget
that every day our great work is incomplete, the human
race shivers and shakes,
sweats out bombs and bullets until the time
our shaman chemists fit Utopia
into a small glass vial.
The man with the plan leans close
and the limo’s white leather creaks
like a closing coffin. “Our high priests and sorcerers
have scanned all possible futures, and there’s only
one Naad, one vibrational pattern that fits.
“And it is sitting right here. Beside me.”
And I know, I think I’ve always known the bitter cup
I’m meant to sip. He pulls a gold syringe
from his white suit coat, places it in
my open, shaking hand.
“We’re almost to the point where past
and future converge, to the place we are
finally all, for just a moment,
in the present moment.
“We now know it is you who
shot the first fix that sent the junk sick
madness scattering back through human
“It’s a fixed point in time, immutable.
You cannot unfix. But this time you will push
too much of a bliss so pure that you will
finally find release and die, and this junk
sick planet will shed its itchy sloughing skin,
“shed it like the serpent that shivers and shakes
and spits and shits blood everywhere as it slithers
up our tingling tree-like spine
to gaze upon the world
with both contempt and compassion from
our pyramid eye. ”
I exhale the fear, push the needle
in. Not bitter, but warm and tingling sweet,
start to nod, my father’s voice
a distant fade,
“We will burn your body on a fire,
to be forgotten. No one will ever
need to fix again, all the broken parts
inside humanity will start to mend.
“No more gods and wars
or sacrifices, and from your scattered ashes
mankind will shed the blindness
from scale-shackled eyes,
shake its phoenix feathers. . .
and finally fly.”
(Image: Raven Show http://cerenaksungur.com/Raven-Show )