For the Chaotes
Let’s hear it at the end of this age
for the chaotes, those psychic
skinwalkers, those sorcerous so’n’so’s,
those who persist in the blasphemy
of imagination and insanity in
our cathedrals of the Rational.
You have to love and hate their willingness–
in this, a universe that lines its mysteries up
against the wall with cigarettes in their mouths–
to dance in the path of bullets,
to worship bullet time, and then continue
their waltz with the corpses.
And still they search for gems
in the dustbins of history. That’s why
I want to speak the truth as: The Chaos is there,
under every leaf and stone, under
every lock and key, under every axiom and theorem,
the chaos is there, the heart of fire,
the beautifully absurd, I see it out there,
underneath the floorboards, and here
comes the chaote, his wizard staff a crowbar.
But no truth can be expressed, only experienced.
Reality will deny your gnosis for as long as you
do not put on your acme rocket of the holy guardian angel and walk off that cliff.
Make little towers of broken glass.
When you look at your reflection in them,
you can see around corners.
(Featured imaged is Doc Chaote Hoodoo Man, by atu-xiii, used without permission)