MADE FOR YOU AND ME 2: hive Being (Stanzas 2017—part 7)
Let's workshop this stanza sequence about immolation at the stake, saints, house cleaning, another handsy dad, visions of Mary, the fallibility of memory, the dubiousness of hypnosis, "me too"
graveyards crushed by tanks of war holding against her your inability to figure her out monotheists calling on lesser deities, angels and saints, in times of trouble on the hunt for women from vulnerable backgrounds memories reprocessed to stoke righteous rage a need for a deeper ancestry has us hyphenate: Irish-American and so on subway packed with eyeballs—a jury of your peers three, and brimming with gonorrhea chemicals over elbow grease— our cleaning practices reveal so much about what we are rounding up a record of those who came out the other side of the harrowing diagnosis— that became her distraction in the online glow the saint, making appearances over two hundred years after her death, only cures those who trust in her magic before she provides any sign—a real real nasty bitch! a serious shout out to all the seekers who stuck to their guns, refusing to recant their theory, refusing to smear their vision as a “demonic lie,” even upon threat of immolation at the stake is there really so much cleaning to be done—or are you hiding? not having dealt with it, after all countless came before leaving shards of solace countless came before leaving shards of cope sitting in on criminal sentencings to keep on the straight path at least the anxiety burned calories the camera as your only companion a nonstop channel to heaven bypassing the church’s chain of intermediary stops impenetrable persons threaten narrow worlds visions of Mary spread through the flock due to women trying to one up one another in regards to the sincerity of their faith a time-tested trick for spotting insecure hankerings for power is to trace back to its source the claim that such and such people engage in orgies featuring the banging and devouring of infants what other president did you expect to win by majority when the majority of voters—clutching crystals, fearing the number thirteen—trust in psychics and astrology? in denial about the ludicrous features of their religion, only before us outsiders— that being at least the munificent explanation frantic need to hear from someone, anyone, who survived what you have humans fused by fire, buried as one habituated to prefer our mirror image, not the one that others see the strange and wondrous wait as if by ancient covenant to test soul’s mettle for equipoise taken aback by the precision with which the elder’s licked hand parted you and worked your spot the accuracy of your memory fragments lulled you into mistaken credulity: although less altered—worked over—than might be typical, you sewed these fragments in eccentric association on a cloth of your own devising chaos electrified with possibility the woman of flatland pasts his faith spoke only as a toupee as if a new camera angle can change the actual face suspicions of the hypnotized shaping the memories “recalled” in hypnosis calling police, paramedics, forces everyone, including ourselves, to face the instability of our loved one fear of social suicide not allowing you even to think about not being Christian he was sure the childhood memories were real, their being in the third person never once drawing even his notice the dismissal of altitudes upsetting ordered expectations unveiled its own gifts—gifts hidden from those who dare fellowship with unclassifiable angels and demons alike
This is a portion of an ongoing mosaic poem called Made for You and Me. This portion is from the first installment: hive Being (Stanzas 2016-2020). More specifically, it is from the 2017 portion of that five-part work.
