Re: Andrew Revkin's Jan 26, 2010 New York Times Dot Earth Article
By Khakjaan Wessington
Though supple, turbulent—and though they chant
Of solar paradise—they unify
The men who perish, with the summer morn,
By will of holy medicinal rant.
At first with bone and spear (they fear to die),
To better fertilize the harvest corn
They yawp beneath the moon and dance through time—
Their feet crush dates to brew their madness-wine.
Parading swords and spleens aloft, they laugh;
Distilling blood-filled cauldrons—doubting crime
Exists, when God is bliss beneath the pines:
And every day their numbers grow by half.
I saw this mob of dervish bacchanals—
Through books and portraits—robbing banks and kings.
A countess beckons me with legs aloft
To join her bloody tub: me, dick, and balls--
To learn that God loves pain: that pleasure's wings
Will fly the sadist heavenward, to soft,
Unlikely Eden. Rurik the Viking
Has brothers who forgave the fraticide,
Andreas Baader urges me to bomb
For nothing's sake—or simply gadfly's sting,
I can't, or won't. I write—I don't decide—
Too late, they pass and leave me here with psalm.
I should have bombed the labs—for sake of sea,
For Pan, and not for idiots—for me!
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