The Angels who Wrote The Books

The Canoes made from skins of things unknown
untold
but beheld in nightly gleams of shining stars

When traveling along the river flow
no one would see each other's eyes
for fear that they might know
where the shining gleam in their bamboo was fabricated


They wrote of ancient songs
"sticks and stones...
sticks and stones....
sticks and stones...
sticks and stones...."

No one dared finish, to maintain a holy ebb

The City Doors

Held wide open for those who understood
slightly
what only the priests understood

and those who pretended to understand
were taken to dark caves
to read the nightglow of the stones

They said, gammaray research
or, Holy Ghosts

The Tribal Priests

Art came in many forms
from dance to exhibitions by tribal Newcomers
Welcomed the Angry caterpillar-stomached-spirit Men
Who Ate people's Enthusiasm for breakfast
Drawing photos of things they did not want
a rock
or a piece of cloud

The Traveling Merchants

They Traveled by River Flow
Snake-skin ores,
chants that propelled wind
only the Priests Understood

The Center Market

The Center held precious stones
to be hidden by a heap of words from The Book
only the priests Understood
Shouting the end of days
alongside men living them plainly

They Banished Scribes to the ocean side

Given a great home
and a great metal boat
that would sink straight down
a pen and ink and paper made of somebody's gown
no need to return, they'd claim
the tribe is no longer in need of you
dwell alone by your written and observed dismay

The roads were littered with Watchtowers

The rooms in each home were hanging skins for the canoes
no one spoke of where they attained them
no one told of how to attain them
but in secrecy and privacy of elusiveness from the stars
or intoxication of the wines
methods encrypted within soft spoken songs of verse