AVANT SOUL

Hail to the Great Suck, Procrastination
(Angel Food)

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 a lower mortgage rate,
Solving Windows 95 — copying Windows 98,
Or navigating the worldwide web
  with savvier search engines,
Or entering to PalmPilots delectable restaurants
Or 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.


      But the 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 & your blighted ignorance.

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


In your cultures and clans, societies and associations,
Many of you are brought up to believe
That life's a great banquet and most poor fools
Are starving to death.


    But that is not 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,
One might be mistaken that life's hard work
Was token for yet another pop song foray
For the perfect boy 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 is engulfed in a gaping maw of infinity,
And you're the tasty snack
        in a grinding chasm   of time.

Hear that grinding? It's the wheels of eternity,
And 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     the judgment angels are exceedingly starving,
That 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 on your multiple flaws,

Feeding primarily on disorientation,
When you've misbegotten your truer purpose,
And forgotten consistent kindness,
  even to yourself, along the way.


They fry juicy wallets in vats of your humungous 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 the mortgages afloat, now you have signed
  your soul to the accountant of eternity
And the dark, shrouded angels reach out from their cloaks,
Saying, You're mine. You're mine. What a sweet, succulent morsel,
              and you're mine, you're all mine..


Hear that nibbling sound? They delicately suck and munch
Marrow of your brittle bones, for each and every time
You so casually spurned to follow-through
With assistance for someone pleading for your help.

You've had every evasive reason,
Every superb promissory of denial,
Every scintilating explanation
As to why your needs were more important,
And now — the other fellow is burned.       Fat dripping on the coals,
            but whose life is wasted?

The soup de jour is your ever-simmering pot
Filled with fresh-cut herbs & the frothy excuses of delay.
In your life, your avoidance of the hard questions
  and searching answers
Are surprisingly nuanced and well-seasoned.
What a fine cook you are, for excusing your broth!

You little ladle-stirrer, you.


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 somehow lost along the way.   The whirling and spinning must stop.
This bacchanalia to gods of the most 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 earth person that, unwittingly,
You have stepped on, every seeming earthworm
  in that kingdom of consciousness
  which crawls within your garden.

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