Three women of wiseness barreled out of Sapphos
each bearing incense and mirth
North of the Ganges
Or was it south of the Pecos?
Well, they never were much into following constellations
For anyplace was their place
Paris, Texas being Paris, France in the heart
They had quieted their internal fury
and viewed it all now as some sort of skewed cosmic joke.
Not that they would ever go gently into that good night.
Their newly adopted modus operandi:
polish the rough edges of survival,
make no effort at blending in,
one just was,
they just were,
no more discarding the story you are,
why cheat other passengers on the journey?
After riding roughshod over the creampuff Four Horseman of the Apocalypse
only the Self-Imprisoned Adherents remained as threats.
Its membership hardwired religious heathens sporting sharp incisors,
their mutant teeth honed on the body of Christ.
Just past Irony, the trio entered the state of Whimsy,
road signs welcomed gatherings of pessimists, armadillos and a secret sect involving glass jars
Just what kind of town was this?
A few denizens milled about.
A forlorn carpenter crossed the road, distributing cards reading “I build bridges, not fences.”
Winking, a slovenly lawyer turned and addressing no one in particular said:
“People of the jury, there being no court of public opinion” before stopping and scratching his head.
Under an elm tree, a dusty exhibit featuring Arthur’s sword stood alongside an anvil for sale.
The literati argued over the divinity of the Brothers Grimm versus the Sisters Bronte,
This was not Kansas.
A little past due, the mists of Avalon appeared on the horizon,
as scarred voices rang into the threesome’s heads,
cries and whispers unrecorded in history books,
vocal eruptions of scorching terror and fear,
outbursts from the human collective unconscious,
these were debts of pain neither dollars nor words could repay or repair.
A blurry stick figure appeared overhead, it’s mouth in a grin speaking, “the fleet is in, go cause some holy hell.”
Mary Magdalene, bruised and bleeding, shuffled by
heading to or coming from a sea of sin
Pharisee sycophants sounding her approach with a warning bell.
Moving on, the wise women encountered a large, burned out hulk bobbing in the water
Dodging pookahs and pixies, a gnarled man shuffled towards them
“I am Noah and some say I failed miserably
I faithfully tried for two of each but with ‘don’t ask, don’t tell, what was I to do?
Nowadays, I meander about awaiting further instruction, grabbing thunder to quiet the heavens.
There is no glory in bombs bursting in air or any rockets’ red glare. For this I know.”
An empty wagon train appeared on the horizon and stopped
From it came a vibration of galactic energy, call it Soul’s Law.
The definition: all exhibiting predatory predilection are rendered into the void.
Suspended in a timeless purgatory,
banished to another part of the multiverse,
a yellow lit miasma of static state internal wilderness,
doomed to return, upon relenting, as those they detest
until getting right
Facing the wagons, the women spoke in harmony and misinterpretation:
“Our desire is to hold you harmless so hear us out before your action of carnage seals your fates.
Is your faith one of actual emancipation?
Or a corrosive ball and chain spoiling the magic?
The foundation of belief is best if poised as a springboard towards grace.
All we seek is the earthly manna that succors spiritual hunger.
We are not the meal you seek.
We were once you.”
That they weren’t but would be in time.