A poem I wrote that expresses the freehoodship ethos better perhaps than I could do in prose:
2012 Epistle of the Virtual Apostle
I’m apocalyptic tonight, Lord, though supine in
civilization’s pastiche below a pasteurized Milky Way
wondering how many back-up generators are there
keeping this light pollution between me and
the stars and
for that matter, how
many back-up generators were there all week
keeping the limp handshake and the half-hug
between me and other people? Maybe we
are, as lactation experts
claim, not trailing
clouds of glory, but former babies wired
for such future skin to skin contact.
And maybe I’m wired likewise, a dim
bulb livewire, to consider the consequences of
that metaphor. Or maybe not, Lord, because
consider means “with the stars” and tonight,
as I’ve stated, I can’t see them
from any of the seven thousand parking
spaces at
Sunrise Mall. Live apocalyptic update:
just Venus visible here in the dark
nether regions by Sears where it appears
out-of-work meth-head contractors stripped the copper wire
and got away, discovering another
false bottom
to the penultimate rock bottom. Live apocalyptic
update number two: coincidence or serendipity that
there exist as many false bottoms as
generators, darkness being a man-made light like
a 20th Century
comb-over distracting as beautiful
rainbows on flies attracted to dog crap
in all occupied parks, Tai Chi or
no Tai Chi. In one of those
parks, Lord, the
one where Saturdays I
offer free handshake lessons, I recently dissed
my friend’s prophesy. I recant my dis. She
prophesized that we’ll naturally conceive of everyone
in 2012 as our stunt-doubles: when
there’s
an off-color joke in sensitive company, there’ll
be a stunt-double to do your smile.
When some brainwashed jihadist enters a burning
mosque and rescues the 1% innocent bastard
banker
son of the 99% evil enemy
cleric, he’s also your stunt-double. And when
you’re doing your “reverse Borat” thing, those
interventions that seek to appeal to the
highest in people, you’re
being a stunt-double
for all those politicians so bent on
pandering. Anyway, Lord, if she were here
tonight and delivered, cross-legged on her neoprene
yoga mat, the third live apocalyptic
update,
she’d say those meth-head contractors, running with
hastily spooled spools of copper, fearing the
searchlight of the police chopper, are my
stunt-doubles in that they’re helping me consider
it all.
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