Thursday, April 10, 2008

Manifest Destiny: The Cuplrits of the Pulpits

Audibly I can say that I am indubitably that auspicious emcee unscrupulously dismantling these unctuously preaching trifles speaking to disciples of greed regurgitating blasphemy, man fuck bling, anxious to be something like we amongst the deities, but y’all you can’t swing from these trees your hearts’ got no root so just leave…

Before I drop words like autumn-gold, or spring growth unfolding in a hundred color morning leaving the dark cold empty winter burning in the paths of new life born of thee, a brief sojourn of glee, can we forborne the temptations of forlorn and avidity, holding dear and cherishing the blessed gifts of divinity exchanging currency for this bountiful beauty of the real green sprouting the prophecy of Whitman who declared that there is no death or Cummings whose breath exalted the leaping greenly spirits of all that is natural infinite and yes

Spouting out like incandescent radiance I kiss the blessed days of this grim lands intent they cleaved from men by cursed ways, leaving the lost and stolen and raped enslaved to a land once grazed instead now paved, while the hungry scrape clouds for a taste of the maize that once abound was plowed by the hands and feet of those who disemboweled by those who disavow what they did as thieves and say gee it’s manifest destiny as if it was meant to be by some hand of Adam that we can’t see that they take over from sea to shining sea and make us free, well minus the 2 million in cell block C, put away sight unseen by the same pushers who invest in grams of keys, who contracting policies skew ontology with ideologies of individuality when refined, defined, colonized, systematized, and itemized, we are identified and solidified as I, an I which inevitably leads to mine, and away from mind…

And soon the ayes are preoccupied with remaining blind to the sights and clime of a time crying for the rhymes of the sublime to unite the universal chimes of the runes of ancient minds whispering from the sky for the ruin of the industrial kind stamping out people on factory lines, rampaging our lives only concerned about the bottom lines and the top dollars whilst lonely scholars, bare-knuckled brawlers, and hard-working blue-collars get shifted like pawns in a game of chess organized to fill their chests with the gold lacking from their soul because they forgot so long ago this feeling of hope…

And no longer believe in anything save sleep, but the seas of the forgotten still dream and we the begotten still breathe and still dance to the sounds of drum beats and heart beats like aborigines embracing this mystery of our phenomenology, chanting and praying for the victory of our cosmogony of the incredible, indelible, ineffable and in other words the oh so simple ripple of kinfolk that unfolds the unending roads of the lotus bestowed and foretold by thee as our one and only real mother-fucking manifest destiny.