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Thursday, March 25, 2010

On Human Achievement Day - Sat March 27 2010

two Canadians taught me a game in Mexico:
put your hands in the fire
pluck out a red-hot coal
juggle it in your hands
(looking as relaxed as possible = winner)
then hand it off to the next person around the fire.

was-when-we-were Pagans
we knew fire. Who would make the fire?
We would do it. Again and again, we would do it.
And always, there was fire.

But now what good missionaries we are.
We have lights. We turn them out.
When we turn them on, they don't actually burn, brightly.
They just shine. Light with no heat.

The children have quenched the fire to embers.
On occasion I can smell the smoke,
but I'm not sure how to rekindle
that heat I remember.

Prometheus asks:
Where is the wood? No wood.
Where is the fire? Not in my house.
Who knows anymore? Not me.

Prometheus forsaken, hell, entire Pantheons forgotten.
gods lay dead at our feet, strewn across ocean floors and
injecting drugs under blue lights out the back doors of museums.
Legion are unemployed gods, watching daytime TV
and stalking you on myFace, human achievement is so great.

Right now, r i g h t n o w, reach under the horizon of your ribcage,
grab at the hottest embers, those nearest your heart. cup them like birds
breathe your life to them. give us this day our light again, from heat.

1 comment:

laamsha said...

so real and so true. on so many levels....
how does it all become so distant? the memory of smoke, the memory of fire.....the memory of heat...?