Paul Bergeron Poet Prose Poetry

19 Casting Lots in the House of Blame

I remember when it was a horrid beast did descend to this God forsaken hell to drag me screaming high into the sky, and then the beast spoke to me: "Now you see the town below, a vast expanse dwindles so... And what was phantom? Who could know? And what is vision? What revision? And what a dream by who I came to prophesy? And who could know the so-and-so of miracles? And how should I divine by the twinkle of mine eye, a prison made in ignorance and fear, casting lot and laying blame, avoiding terror and the shame of shadows summoned in to fill a loss? And what is vision? Why revision? And what a dream by who I came? And who to be the Oracle, dressed in phantoms garb? And who would know the so-and-so to summon up some miracle? And what the rot that seeps in soil? What the cause for the toil? And who the tears have fallen for? And why the weeping? Why the fear? Why the fear mortal man? Now answer Me! Or I will let you Fall!"
And so I spoke my heart and mind, clawing in the clay: "I miss them all, that tender hell, and wish them well, their burden and its' weight. Nor would I want to add a lot, to the sorrows made by pain and loss. And I would thank my lot, should it be I should return to bear my burden with the damned, clawing at the clay. So as it is, in how you lifted me, from the mud below, I will lift their stupid heads, from the muck to see the sky a vast expanse. And if they can't, I kiss them 'pon their crown as they bring their sorrows down, 'to the River Styxx, chewing at the mud... like a cow with its' cud, bullish and docile. So set me down to my plane! Demon? Wraith? Sorrowful bird? And I will live my lot, better now. And thank you for the terror you have wrought. Stupid prick. Stupid prick."

*note poem 18 is from a series of prosepoems titled "TheSCOWL.

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