The Bad Spirit rises behind my eyes in an attempt to overthrow the Good Spirit.
This is the free-based essence of the god-narcotic -
the earliest shamanistic theologians were actually shamanistic psycho-analysts,
and ever since, too many huemans have been searching
without instead of within
pounding the pavement two-by-two,
selling Armageddon from the outside,
when the Apocalypse happens on the inside. Anyone can have visions.
Anyone can be prophetic -
but a vision isn't one for all. Yeah, welcome to the fall, welcome to the fall.
Wot's good for the goose, may not be good for the gandly pandeR bear.
Try as I may, I am still not able to purge myself of the Bad Spirit.
If I could snap the umbilical cord attached to the serpentine cortex, codex-stem,
releasing the Bad Spirit out of my eyes,
it could probably fell a million men with its lies,
with a soft, ghostly whisper. A twister
of insidious incantations covering my sight in filtered glasses made of everything
that slithers along the fringe of subconsciousness and psychic television.
Blue light flickers, empty eyes attempting to fill a void
by vicariously watching people die from a cold-shouldered distance
on the eleven o' clock news -
rabid cameras frothing at the lens,
capturing the worst possible moment in a stranger's life.
The worst __________ moment in a stranger's life.
We should all be as one.
If one person out of 7 billion is starving,
the world is still in famine.
Swords to plowshares,
plowshares back to swords again.
We are born with the Good Spirit.
The Bad Spirit enters after birth
in a collage of experiences:
the brain is washed with price tags,
the inconsistency of jealousy,
landfills growing beside Christmas trees,
the violation of incestuous rape clinging as rotten fruit
amongst deeds performed on bent knees.