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Romancing The Soul

Updated on May 20, 2011

From my book, The Evolution of A Word Made Flesh

I am not sure what the feeling was, or how I began to write this one.

All I can say is that it was inspired by my loathing of religion as a means

to control people's minds and my loathing of me at the time to not be

able to write anything that didn't have to do with 'love' or 'romance'.

Click below to listen to a reading of the poem as you read along.


      The birth of a romance begins when a boy

            writes about breasts, lips and 

              pupils within prism set stones.

         It dies when pen strokes, key strokes and 

             mindful joys are only about 

              what can only be

             felt within graffiti tagged labia walls;

  The brick and mortar of belly button ring flesh,

    licked down to her eternal grout skin-

                              overlay of calcium bone;

                 That carnivorous pre-natal channel.

        He's a poetical virgin

      afraid to be inspired by anything other than

                 female glands, her dyed hair. The

          shaven flesh of any woman.

           But after her sacred periodical 

                  pomegranate plumb stains

            deny him admittance for gratification,

                he moves himself to seek another romance.

                                This one with words.

                  This affair wades deeper in the waters of 

              lithium paint thinner lacquer and 

                             combustible, flammable thoughts.

             Loosed now from the umbilical cord of her,

                     he's birthed into a smorgasbord

                              apocalypse of ideas and words

      to search out his darkness, his light, to

             throw away or keep away self.  To expound on the 

                 shame and hurt of his people he sees being as

           birds bathing morose in the mud of politics and religion.

              Words that make elementary ears wax eccentric.

            To expose popularity polls as prepared

                presidential hikes for approval.

                       Slicing minds that are

                             inbred with patriot

           conservative parrot or 

                 radical leftist rights;

                   Questioning the ingredients in 

         religious raisin bran bread.  The holy rolled

               psychological tablets of commandments

              swallowed by sheep and ad-ministered

                                   by wolves on pulpits of lies.

         He has time now to contemplate the 

                 spelling of or how to annunciate words like,

         Believe        &         Perceive

         I before E, except after C?

Bold type lie;

I before E, Except after C.

       I before E is,

I am before Eden, so are you, accept and see.

                         A - C - C - E - P - T

Another Creation Consciously Evolving Past Trees

           The first acronym of the species of man. 

                   For as once he was blind

                  he now perceives that,

 If Jesus' blood was spilled once

               for the souls of all living,

               I suppose a woman must bleed

               once a month to rescue

               an unborn soul from possibly not 

               having the chance to decide what to believe in.

        Now he writes understanding why sex is so

             over-rated.  Not as an act to enjoy

                    but in comparison to what it can birth;

            an Einstein, the next Luther King Jr the

             next Lennon or Marley, Van Gogh,

        Cesar E. Chavez or Juarez.  The other half of these

          a rib most believe; yet to him,

           he perceives it's the feminine soul's destiny

              to walk in the footsteps of Madam Currie or 

                 Keller, Kahlo or Joplin, Earhart or Angelou. 

                  So not all women are whores and 

                  not all men in power are war mongering,

                soul caging scoundrels.

                If we are to turn back toward Eden, 

                  the young poet asks;

                    What are we to believe in?

                            If not in Our highest of self,

                         should we perceive us blasphemous? 


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