Читать книгу Banana Palace - Dana Levin - Страница 7

THE GODS ARE IN THE VALLEY

eighth century, Chinese

The mind sports god-extensions.

It’s the mountain from which

the tributaries spring: self, self, self, self—

rivering up

on curling plumes

from his elaborate

headpiece

of smoke.

His head’s on fire.

Like a Paleolithic shaman

working now in the realm of air, he

folds his hands—

No more casting bones

for the consulting seeker, this gesture

seems to mean.

Your business, his flaming head suggests,

is with your thought-machine.

How it churns and churns.

Lord Should and Not-Enough,

Mute the Gigantor, looming dumb

with her stringy hair—

Deadalive Mom-’n’-Dad (in the sarcophagus

of parentheses

you’ve placed them)—

He’s a yogi, your man

with a hat of smoke. Serene, chugging out streams

of constructed air…

Mind’s an accident

of bio-wiring, is one line of thinking.

We’re animals that shit out

consciousness, is another.

The yogi says:

you must understand yourself

as projected vapor.

Thus achieve your

superpower.