Weakly Devotional

the-first-shall-be-last TISSOT

The men of Nineveh shall rise in judgment with this generation, and shall condemn it:
because they repented at the preaching of Jonas; and, behold, a greater than Jonas is here.
The queen of the south shall rise up in the judgment with this generation,and shall condemn it:
for she came from the uttermost parts of the earth to hear the wisdom of Solomon;
and, behold, a greater than Solomon is here.
Christ’s words from Matthew 12:41,42

It’s Sunday again for you cloistered patricians
aloof from the madness, the magic and myth;
who trust in your wisdom, investments, physicians
unready to answer forthwith:

“Why bother with worship – in church or the zoo –
why weaken the links with a dull set of tools ?”
you ask yourself over your high-end Tarrazu,
bemused at the fables of fools.

You’ve bartered salvation for New York Times articles,
sipping on bitterness (shade-grown organic).
You settle for molecules, atoms and particles
unfairly-traded,  satanic –

while you celebrate emptiness, general futility
musing on nothingness, sure of specifics
ensconced in your kitchens of pampered gentility
flirting with atheist physics.

Those simple plebeians:  you’d love to enlighten them
help them, like you, to become a free-thinker
but you remain tasteful, for boldness might frighten them
reeling in fairy tales: hook, line and sinker.

Yet somebody, somewhere has uttered your sentence
(though you abhor judgement, let’s read it again).
Sheba and Nineveh, versed in repentance
await you – not whether but when.

The darkness is brewing unholy filtration;
the wine of the harlot approaches the rim;
your guilt is augmenting in slow percolation;
you shrug it all off on a whim.

The souls of Assyria rise from your paper
they watch in amazement, prepare your abyss.
Your coffee now brims a more sulfurous vapor;
oh sinner – there’s something amiss:

The crypts of Marib and the tombs of the Axumites
shudder and groan while you’re reading the Times…
(immune to the words that some Christarded  poet writes
mixing psychosis with rhymes.)

Royal Sheba will chastise your erudite unbelief,
smug self-importance and cynical talk.
Then she’ll sigh with immense Ethiopian grief
and her Highness Queen Bilqis will balk –

It is Sunday in Babylon.  What if your sunlight ends…
why are there mobs in the streets of the nation?
Shall you have breakfast – or calculate dividends…
what would you pay for salvation?

Baal improved

napo2014button2
IMAGE CREDITS: faithofthefathersreadings.blogspot
faithcrc.net

Aztlán

The Aztecs also claimed to have come originally from Aztlan…
Their very name, Aztecs, was derived from Aztlan.
[Bancroft’s Native Races, vol. V]

 Atlantis is rising, the sin unforgiven
by blood from the hearts which the idols were given.
Aquarian nexus of mystic tradition:
pre-Maya, pre-Toltec, Aztlan: the Origin.

Their temples were glimpsed in infernal damnation
The images carved in symmetrical vision
Where evil, unbounded, uncovers its visage
and flows down the axis of false revelation.

Copal on the steps of the temples was wafting
their censers were smoking, the mirrors were flashing
The crystalline rites of a land in submergence
remembered in priestly obsidian slashing.

But even as life was subsiding from victims
whose blood caught the sunlight with crimson reflection
the vengeance awaited in green vegetation
to swiftly re-conquer an ossified nation.

The sea has her secret Sargassoes of culture,
her tides and abysses of suction and quaking.
Volcanic displacements cause sudden reversals
where continents vanish with new lands awaking.

Thus history finally disposes of those
who refuse to attune to the warning instruction.
They sink in a fit of deluded ambition
denying their part in divine evolution.

Now current-borne memories glide through the temples
where cruelty flourished, oppressing the blameless.
When submarine fable turns modern example
all powers, all titles, prove hollow and nameless.

Atlantis is rising, the debt unforgiven
And straight to the throne of the judgement is driven.
Aquarian idol of mystic tradition:
pre-Olmec, pre-Toltec, Aztlan:  the revision –

revealed in the end as the Israelite’s error
when Baal was enshrined and the rule was by terror.

 THIS JUST IN:  Atlantis in the Andes !!!

Lines for LeRoi Jones (the Imamu )

God help us, Imamu – stop playing the foolImamu
as you babble unhinged in your kente hat.
Bebopping Mao is so very uncool –
what up wit dat ?

Flirtations with Castro (Fidel to the faithful)
and free Cuba Libres imbibed with the Beats
inflamed discontent when your verses turned wrathful
in the streets.

Predictable tirades where whitey’s the foe,
attacking your hosts like an Afro/eccentric
gets old. It’s a stagnant unmusical show:
dull dialectic.

Who knows why the liberals that bankroll you love it?
Who cares what your most recent pseudonym is?
You old and you mad cause’ you can’t rise above it,
mired in the shizz.

Your lines are pure mannitol: dumbed-down cocaine
(The blow on the head by that riot-cop lingers!)
The syntax is whack in your ghetto refrain
(Snap fingers…)

Still you wait for your war – or the Black Star-Liner…
Your rage was your royalty, paid in white money.
Your verse sought to give the right wing a dark shiner –
it’s not funny.

Insulting, belittling others more noble;
your legacy leaves nothing hopeful or witty
Just putrid black waters – the flow uncontrollable
under the city.

Inside of your Kabaa are yet many idols.
Your New Ark of verse did not save from the flood.
You mau-mau and bludgeon with words all your rivals
but draw no blood.

Lighten up, wise Imamu. Your age is soon closing.
You wrote for the stage and said some of it well.
But your verse has gone rotten and yields, decomposing,
a nasty smell.

Twinkle Schascle Yochim: LEROI JONES Live @ The 5’O Club

LINKED VERSION


God help us, Imamu – stop playing the fool
as you babble unhinged in your kente hat.
Bebopping Mao is so very uncool –
what up wit dat?
Flirtations with Castro (Fidel to the faithful)
and free Cuba Libres imbibed with the Beats
inflamed discontent when your verses turned wrathful
in the streets
Predictable tirades where whitey’s the foe,
and attacking your hosts like an Afro/eccentric
gets old. It’s a stagnant unmusical show:
dull dialectic.
So what if the liberals that bankroll you love it?
Who cares what your most recent pseudonym is?
You old and you mad cause’ you can’t rise above it,
mired in the shizz…
Your lines are pure mannitol – dumbed-down cocaine
(The blow on the head by that riot-cop lingers!)
the syntax is whack in your ghetto refrain
(Snap fingers…)
Still you wait for your war – or the Black Star-Liner…
Your rage was your royalty, paid in white money
your verse sought to give the right wing a dark shiner –
it’s not funny.
Insulting, belittling others more noble;
your legacy leaves nothing hopeful or witty
Just putrid black waters – the flow uncontrollable
under the city.
Inside of your Kaaba are yet many idols.
Your New Ark of verse does not save from the flood.
You mau-mau and bludgeon with words all your rivals
but draw no blood.
Lighten up, wise Imamu. Your age is soon closing.
You wrote for the stage and said some of it well.
But your verse has gone rotten and yields, decomposing,
a nasty smell.

POST SCRIPT :

Soul without a Heaven

by Bob McNeil Copyright 2014
Evermore, Amiri’s spirit is a disobeyer,
Fighting all oppositional visions.
On Newark’s numerous walls,
He smears odes to Marxist contrarians.
Evermore, Amiri’s spirit is a disobeyer,
Whose rancor for imperialists
Could torch their needs
To ashen nothingness.
Evermore, Amiri’s spirit is a disobeyer,
Whose right hand manages a pen,
Whose left banks on its shank,
And both will shiv contention givers.
Evermore, Amiri’s spirit is a disobeyer.
Delighting anti-Semites and homophobes,
His published pressure cooker bomb explodes.
Such shaitan ire never erodes.
Shaitan: an evil spirit in Islamic countries

To a Progressive Poet

Your poems read as staggered prose;
the rhythm of the words escapes you.
One assumes, un-mused, you chose
a free-verse prison to run into.

You are modern. And it shows
in lack of structure, meter, beat.
Your emperor, set free of clothes
meanders on unsteady feet

exposed as naked, fending blows
from anarch subjects bored to tears
by cryptic, existential woes
and dreary imagery. One hears

within the verbiage you compose
a load of godless free-form tripe.
The lyrical ebb achieves new lows;
the scent is somewhat over-ripe…

Flux Danger