The poem is a call to arms a flank made of glass on any given animal so you can examine the organs, the viscera, in case there's trouble The poem is written in blood a razor blade serves as a bookmark pages are made of thousands of years of pressure the cover is marble When the war came the poem was disbanded the spine removed, the pages unspooled into four parts and trusted with guardians who would go the separate ways of the compass knowing they would reunite once a peace treaty was settled The poem has been pursued by the servants of three letter mafias, secret services, secret societies, dark alliances and cartels, cults and gurus, the poem is coveted by the ruthless and by idiot savants of sublime knowing The poem is both ego death and blinding enlightenment the poem has collapsed lungs, cured schizophrenia, inspired aneurysms, diffused tumors, swept lovers off their feet and swept indigenous souls under the rug of manifest destiny the poem is manifesto and grimoire It is said the poem is the 11th commandment it is engraved on Musashi Miyamoto's katana it was the top-secret name of Fat Man and Little Boy legend has it the post-explosion shadows on the remaining walls of Hiroshima are the right shadow puppets if placed in the right order It is said the poem shows itself in cataclysmic events in the strut of supermodels on the runway, in the majesty of our mountains the catch is we cannot decipher it, after all, our codebreakers are only human and sometimes manunkind The poem is intensely pursued but the poem is intensely private the poem is a master of disguise a master of locks and deadbolts a weaver of labyrinth, a spider of many webs the poem is a whisper Would you believe me if I told you I have read it? That the poem has burrowed itself within my memories, has wiped my recollection so that I do not know it, but I know it has plans for me the poem will activate when the time is right You have read it as well. We are, the both of us, all of us, limbs to an unassembled Voltron of 1 million arms Shiva and Yama don't got shit on the poem The poem is a saber of light both cauldron and crucible it is our immolation, it is the rich loam of our ashes, it is caterpillar to butterfly The poem is in our DNA, not as rungs on the ladder but as the twisting frame of the ladder itself The poem has been here since forever, and will be here long after we have left our mortal coil, after we have placed coins over our eyes, after we have offered our heads to be strung along the necklace of the old gods The poem is just a touch away, right around the corner, beneath our fingerprints, it is simply there for us to read and to recite, to whisper and shout from the rooftops, the poem is always ready to be heard
From: Vol.10 N.01 – The Transformative Now
Arc of the Covenant
by
Jesse Caverly