Ode to a Prophet

he is sharp

his teeth filed on the hard bones of life

fangs which pierce the soft exterior of our self perception

wounds inflicted with words

penetrate the armor of a dominant psychology

a psychology seeped in illusion, abandonment, betrayal

 

do we sacrifice the prophets to our fear

is the messenger anything more than the vehicle of spirit

giving himself in service to his society

moved by the numen that possesses his soul

educating through the fires of a life lived as outsider

madmen and fools

one we will worship

another we kill

 

how we dismiss he who is born from the victimization

at that hands of those we emulate and represent

we are they in our coverings of modern culture

we protect them, bathing our fears in the labels we assign

an attempt to distance ourselves from a child

an offspring of our uninvestigated assumptions

a prodigy of our efforts and those of our ancestors

 

better perhaps

coddling our ignorance

to name him murder, rapist and thief

to give him the crimes of our genesis

our crimes which birthed these bones he was raise on

the scraps of this culture sharpen these teeth

puncturing the safety of societal myths

we have created a prophet who tends to our wounds

he removes the ancient denial encrusted upon the exterior of our minds

and we in return

murder him for his compassion.

 

 

b.turner  1999

 

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civilians

civilians we call ourselves

as if this war

we send others to fight

is civil.

little scraps of flesh

stick to every surface

hands, face, sweater

they’re in the door lock

as you turn the key.

the civilized

have no eyes to see

action and motive

to wake up and take note.

eyes flew away

when they built that walmart.

one dollar swim shoes are

more important.

b. turner 2010

Strip mall culture #1.

Boyfriend shops.

I wait, writing one-line poems.

Car dependent culture, I cannot escape your grip.

Strip mall neon makes suicide attractive.

A chill so thrill, my bones have left my body.

Without snow, you’d think its spring, but that would be a lie.

And so, we make up words, because life is too short for convention.

b. turner 03/2011