Cold rain falls in the river, flows down to the sea, gets into the skyline, circles endlessly. Same old rain on the wind, same old pain in my soul.

Sunday, September 12, 2010

The Shaman

He looked so wise, so serene
Sitting there naked
Cross legged before his fire

No, that's a lie
He looked pathetic and pompous

I thought his balls would be bigger

He didn't look up,
Just waved his incense
As an orchestra
Of mosquitoes played

Can a dream be overthrown
I asked, without prompt
He hushed

I see
And spit into his fire

Says who?
I hissed in reply

The universe
hmmm, I see, how convenient.
I went to my haunches
And blew smoke through him slowly

Yeah, continued I, well fuck the universe
to which he smiled
And said nothing

Will my dream come true?
I riddled on

Yes, his eyes said

Well, we'll see about that
And I rose,
Surrounding his wisdom
With my human glory

Do you not want the dream?
He cornered

No, I lied

Then why did you desire it?
He delighted

I didn't, I lied

I then passed through
His smoke of wise lavender
And sat cross legged
before him

What makes you so wise?
And I threw my head up at him

Knowing, he said softly
As his eyes drifted back
Into the embers

I put a finger to his arrogant face

Yeah, said I, well
Two and two is four
But that doesn't make me
A mathematician,
Because you see
There is a place where my knowing ends
But the questions continue

That is wisdom, he nodded

Well, I continued, perhaps
Your knowing, along with your wisdom
Ends with my dream

He looked up from his dancing flame
And found my eyes wanting

But the dream was another's ,
He exposed,
Who made it yours
only through your knowing
of its meaning

Then he tilted his head slightly
Why do you resist that which you most desire?

Again, I spit upon his fire
And my words hissed upon him
In sparked reply.
Because I wont be ruled
By the chicanery of
Another's indigestion

Now you deny the validity of an equation
Within your knowing,
That is foolishness
He humoured

Yeah, replied I, well last year in a dream I flew around the moon
on a purple moose
Should I now search out
A purple moose with wings
And begin my journey?

He snortled to my query

Not all dreams are alike
-some are prophetic
Some are symbolic
And some are indigestion
The art is in the knowing,
The wisdom in acceptance
Of that knowing

I then stood, kicked his fire closed
and pissed upon his sad balls

Well I sure as fuck ain't ever gonna
Get married in Ohio. You can bank on it.
to which he replied, we'll see about that
And disappeared into the smoke
As I once again found myself
Sitting on my toilet