#Sepfeb7

[sugdorz39]

Oh, Man of Omens by Gustavo Rodriguez

[sugdorz39]

Romancing the Soul

The birth of a romance begins when a boy writes about breasts, lips and pupils within prism set stones. It dies when pen strokes, key strokes and

mindful joys are only about what can only be felt within graffiti tagged labia walls;

The brick and mortar of belly button ring flesh, licked down to her eternal grout skin overlay of calcium bone; That carnivorous pre-natal channel.

He’s a poetical virgin afraid to be inspired by anything other than female glands, her dyed hair. The shaven flesh of any woman.

But after her sacred periodical pomegranate plumb stains deny his admittance for gratification, he moves himself to seek another romance. This one with words. This affair wades deeper in the waters of lithium paint thinner lacquer and combustible flammable thoughts. Loosed now from the umbilical cord of her,

he’s birthed into a smorgasbord apocalypse of ideas and words

to search out his darkness, his light to throw away or keep away self. To expound on the shame and hurt of his people he sees being as birds bathing morose in the mud of politics and religion. Words that make elementary ears wax eccentric. To expose popularity polls as prepared presidential hikes for approval. Slicing minds that are inbred with patriot

conservative parrot or radical leftist rights; Questioning the ingredients in religious raisin bran bread. The holy rolled psychological tablets of commandments swallowed by sheep and ad-ministered

by wolves on pulpits of lies.

He has time now to contemplate the spelling of or how to annunciate words like,

Believe & Perceive I before E, except after C?

Bold type lie; I before E, Except after C. I before E is, I am before Eden, so are you, accept and see.

A – C – C –E – P – T Another Creation Consciously Evolving Past Trees

The first acronym of the species of man.

For as once he was blind he now perceives that,

If Jesus’ blood was spilled once for the souls of all living, I suppose a woman must bleed once a month to rescue an unborn soul from possibly not having the chance to decide what to believe in.

Now he writes understanding why sex is so over-rated. Not as an act to enjoy but in comparison to what it can birth;

an Einstein, the next Luther King Jr the next Lennon or Marley, Van Gogh, Cesar E. Chavez, or Juarez. The other half of these a rib most believe; yet to him, he perceives it’s the feminine soul’s destiny to walk in the footsteps of Madam Currie or Keller, Kahlo or Joplin, Earhart or Angelou.

So not all women are whores and not all men in power are war mongering, soul caging scoundrels.

If we are to turn back toward Eden, the young poet asks; What are we to believe in?

If not in Our highest of self, should we perceive us blasphemous?

[sugdorz39]

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