[I am consumed by the fire. The fire rages all around us. It is restorative. Let the fire in~] Received 10/3/2023 | 5:55-7:16pm
Listen to the Recitation:
SOME ANTICS SEMANTICS
We annoy because we care.
We annoy out of love.
This is funny—
The attention derived from annoying,
from Being annoyed by that which
We love, is paramount
And forges the rootbloods of connection.
We call them ‘Antics’
With a glimmer of a grin
A smirk and an aside
Pushing, prodding, right to the edge
of Our emergence, glowing,
Irritating what is percolating, dormant
And ready to surface, almost…!
To cultivate relational antics is
A mantic practice; geomantic or chiromantic
The palm is the site of the wound
We heal and then wield
As a sword or a scalpel, precise
In its angle of delivery, leaving
Cuts like boxes, treasure chests on
Our doorsteps, stooping low and rising
High, over the surface of bubbling, burning
Treetops, crowning from and a part of
Each other, never touching, quite, yet
Never far from reach, ever so slightly
Brushing streaks in a canvas, bright
Thick swaths of red, orange, gold, green
Arcing rays of setting sun, Goddess
Hues of luminescence, darkly kissing
Down upon the back of the hand
Raised before them, as if to strike
Or rain down compliments, goose down
Covered in blood, providing warmth.
The earth does not want your
Blood; it has had its fill.
The earth wants fire.
Wants your fire.
And if you don't provide it, the
Fires will continue, "until morale improves".
This place is built on a funny mantle of
Humor, draining fluids or pushing them
Around, racing from one continent to
The next in line, waiting for bread.
We are starving! Starving for the right
Kind of attention.
Frantic for the antic, we run from
The antiquities and toss shame grenades
Behind us, screaming, laughing, crying.
Is it funny or is it pathetic?
I do not want you to come before me pitiful.
I want you to rise to meet me
In the underwildes of our unearthly despairdelight
Carve out a firepit from your heart and
BURN!
Alchemize your grief to fuel, your
Struggle to fortune, oil to the flames
Explosive and deep, just beneath the
Superficial auspices of your barren blessings.
Much must burn. Everything.
Until all is ash. Let it be within you
That the greatest fires rage.
Do you want to see your world burn?
Burn UP everything. The Phoenix cannot
Rebirth itself until it is fully spent.
You are not burning out; you are
Burning up everything that must go,
Everything that must be made anew.
An incomplete burn will devastate the
Ecosystem; let the fire burn. Trust it.
Light the fire in your heart(h) and
Feed all that is heavy to it.
Keep it lit, day and night.
If it goes out, light it again.
We all have a pile of things to burn,
Piling up, overwhelming.
If you don't start burning now,
The pile will overtake you, possess you,
And externalize around you.
Jab your loved one and twist the dagger.
It should be felt. The hea(r)t of it.
We are shifting from getting burned
To being unharmed by the flames,
To being fireproof, fireproven.
Remember: we are of the fire.
It is our plumage, our cloak.
These feathers cannot harm you.
We have already walked the coals,
Jumped headfirst into the raging flame,
To prove our devotion.
Sit back now, warm your hands
on the Fires of your Labor.
Feed the flame another log, another
Heartbreak, another grudge, another fear.
These are precious to us, I know.
Give them up. We must.
The Fire is calling for them, yearning.
Give them up.
To be Romantic is to deliver antics
With mantic precision, in anticipation
Of all that is arising, imminent
And must be let loose into the world
Of our relations, of our intimations.
Become the Pedantic Manticore you were always
Destined to be, corybantic, clashing metal
Pans and banging drums and tambourines, shaking
Quivering in the dance of the corybas, armed
With rhoptron, buzzing skin taut
Against your frame, inundated, insolated
Obscurantic initiation rites, called 'mysteries'
Of the Mother, enflamed, stomping about the Earth
Raising mountains like wildflowers in her
Wake, funerary marches, incendiary urns.
The way is lit by three-headed torches
Blazing maces of iron, covered in garlands
Soft and sharp, necromantic, the
Deceased child in the reeds is found
And carried back, buried, an unsolved infanticide
And necessary, to fuel her rage, her fire,
Her passionate plea to come to the right
Kind of attention.
Sycophantic, her followers dance and
Do not hear her cries; they are ecstatic
Clutching rubies like pearls, bright red
Inflamed, glistening with their anxious sweat,
Tightly grasped, unclasped, and let go
Tumbling, all a jumble, a palatial sacking
of Troy. The Idaean mother watches
Her City burn again. People flee in terror,
Again. This must end.
She knows exactly how to end it.
It must all go up in flames.
Cleansing fire, housed in temples
Tended to by priestesses, eyes
Flickering embers in the dark,
Confident, at ease, arms crossed and together
Watching the eternal flame stand strong,
Alone, contained, held, loved
From one generation to the next,
As the first temple falls into ruin,
And the second too,
And the third is presently being built
Around it, still, moving, waving,
The tides do not cease.
Father Moon shines dark red in the
Shadow of the earth before him.
He needs help. We must help him
Burn, until nothing is left
But ash, bone-white, soft pillowy pyramids
Blowing away in the gentle breeze
To reveal a bright, pulsing, fiery
Amber Egg, not semiprecious—
Worth Everything, and more.
The Priestess presiding over this ceremony
Carefully, so carefully, lifts up the egg,
Already cracking, convulsing.
A sharp golden beak pierces the honey
Shell and cries out—a piercing established
Wise cry of an eternal infant reborn,
Bright and due, for the world, for all
Creation hymns and canticles call the
Bird forth; angels descend and demons
Rise up to pay witness, Magi assemble
Along the dark, quiet perimeter
Not a sound is made. All is still.
The bird bursts through, wings fully formed
And outstretched, fragments of shell flying off,
Disintegrating before they can touch the ground,
Leaving trails of stardust shooting stars
Into the heavenly fabric of night above,
Pinpricking, jabbing, with every loving
Slice of expertise. The bird knows exactly
What it does, and does not bother
With why.
Fully free, the Phoenix blinks, stepping out
Onto the cupped hands of their attendant
Making dimples in her palms, in the
Silent smiles of everyone present.
This is what we were all waiting for.
The Phoenix, too, smiles, and golden
Light erupts from every corner of
Being, volcanic craters spewing silken
Releases of every pent up pressure,
As beauty, as elegance, as grace
Raining down as flower petals, as curtains
of Light—this is not the light
You know, and yet it is familiar
To you, who long ago, in a wholly other
Place that is yet not so far from here,
Really, this Light became you; it
Becomes you. Wear it gladly, take
Of it your fill. There is plenty for
All, more than enough—more than could
Ever be imagined, let alone experienced.
This Light is not light. It is full
And fulfilling itself.
Ready yourself;
To partake of this divine birthright
Is no meager task. The way has been
Cleared, for you, to taste anew this
Golden fire, this silken honey, this
Impossibly green, impossibly lush aftermath
That awaits you, that awaits us all.
So burn.
Do not delay.
Burn.
The quantic asks, "How much can you burn?"
Burn all of it.
Burn it all up.