AVANT SOUL

In your religions, many of you are taught

That angels are kind and benign,
   with fine golden wings designed
To lift soiled spirits out of the gutter and into the stars.
They have strong perfect figures and oddly antiseptic airs.
Never need to bathe or gargle. Never have dandruff
   or yellowed teeth. Never seem to eat or sleep,
   or send robes to the dry cleaners,
And most have luxuriant hair. Nor are these angels fraught

With human concerns,
   like locking in lower mortgage rates,
Navigating the worldwide web
   with savvier search engines,
Or entering into Palm Pilots delectable restaurants
   and ideal dates.

Around Christmas time, your angels seem
   to multiply,       appearing in your stores and malls,
Heralding the dawn of post-Thanksgiving sales
With bright metallic banners,    a hark,
   or a song.    Ding-dong!

      But angels of judgment, though luminous,
   are dark.    Their presence is less appreciated at parties,
   at times of good cheer.    They are harrowing.    Devouring,
They feed on misconceptions & blighted ignorance.

Their work, hardly fashionable, is monstrous
   and greatly needed, lasting through most lifetimes
   and much of the year.

In your cultures and clans, societies and associations,
Many of you were raised to believe
That life's a great banquet and most poor fools
Are starving to death.
   But that isn't all.

With your feast days, holy days,
Rites of passage and graduation dances,
Electric shopping carts or journeys to the mall,
Trips to Italy, treks to the clubs, coming out at the bars
   or at debutante balls,
You might be mistaken to think life's hard work
Is token for another pop song foray
For that perfect trick or girl, or the perfect car,
The perfect house, or the perfect getaway.

You speak as if it's just hors d'oeuvres,
Another party snack - yet before you know it,
Your life's engulfed in a gaping maw of infinity,
And you're the tasty snack
         in a grinding chasm of time.

Hear that grinding? It's wheels of eternity.
Your actions have flowered for some baked infinity bread,
And the wheels of eternity grind exceedingly fine.

For every time the currency of your worth
   is measured by the size of your bank account,
The value of your stocks, or platinum limits placed
   upon ever-swelling credit cards,
      Every time you squandered your esteem on the reach
      of your affluence,       square feet of your condo,
Or the number of gadgets in your car, may I remind you
     ... That ...
Angels of judgment are exceedingly starving,
And you're fattening a paucity and depth of your spirit
For eventual slaughter.
                Coin of the kingdom & food for thought!
The dark angels are waiting, their hunger ferocious,
Uncaring as to your orientation,
Whether spiritually lazy, straight, or gay.

Feeding primarily on disorientation, when you've
   misbegotten a truer purpose, forgotten consistent kindness,
Even to yourself    ... along the way ...

They fry juicy wallets in vats of waffling indecision;
I hear you'll make a fine sour dough.
Your vanity and gym-toned good looks
Make a tasty sauce, in honor of every broken promise
   to your elusive soul.    You're so fine.
And so delicious.

My, what a yummy boy (or girl)
Where once you belonged to your houses, your cars,
Your keeping mortgages afloat, now you have signed
   your soul to a shrewd accountant of eternity
And clouded, shrouded angels reach from their cloaks, saying,
You're mine. You're mine. What a scrumptious, succulent morsel,
      and you're mine, you're all mine.

Hear that nibbling sound? That pulverizing & kneading? They suck & munch
Delicate marrow from the dishonesty of your bones
   for each & every time you casually spurned
Follow-through of assistance to someone pleading
   for your help.       Yes, the angels do lunch!

You've had every evasive reason, every superb promissory of denial,
Every scintillating explanation as to why your needs
   were more important - and now, the other fellow is burned.

The soup du jour is brewing, a simmering pot
Filled with smoky herbs & frothy excuses of delay.
In life, your avoidance of hard questions
Is surprisingly nuanced & well-seasoned.
What a clever cook you are, justifying your broth-
And inventing recipes for your reasons!

You're only as lost as a finding out,
Only as searching as an answer,
Only as unknown as grass that grows
Underneath the compassion
   you've lost day by day.

The whirling and spinning must stop,
      this bacchanalia to gods of elusive escapes.

And I suppose you would say
That as long as you're here, you can never avoid
The inevitable realization of your stunning impact
To every other person that you have unwittingly stepped upon,
Every seeming earthworm
      in the kingdom of consciousness
   which crawls in your overgrown garden.