Sunday, March 25, 2012

Bone Blossom


painting by rolan gonzalez.

Bone Blossom

Magnanimous-Trillion-Squared,
Magna for short,
is suspended mid-dimensions,
between my thousand lives,
CGFC, Cosmic Guide First Class,

with his sentient spread sheet graphs
pulsating like meteorite worms on his
massive wall screen, sporting unlabeled
florescent colors and undefined shapes,

representing my infinite diverse personalities,
squirming like bacterial larva, inhabiting
parallel life events, all prodigy of my present
entity, branching out first into arcs then axis
bone blossoms, viral, competitive, with growth
patterns dissimilar, every one nearly amnesiac
relative to their spiritual siblings, their various
veils of forgetfulness wrapped invisibly over
their identical faces,

sprouting marvelous bone flowers in hundred
pod clusters, many overlapping, interlocking
similar events within the same relative space,
anatomical particles passing by and through
each other;

with the chosen ones earning more prestige,
more carnate accolades by getting wedged
in and between two or more existences,
as the legions of them assert themselves
alternately, first in one dimension,
then another, and another, perhaps more;

essence of ozone choking small spaces
as synapse fry and fray, dimensional shifts
twisting into a macabre distorted reclamation ,
sucking, deflating, atrophying, with chamber
pressure-sealed doors flapping on broken hinges,

as my personalities are punished, misdiagnosed
with dissociative identity disorder, soon incarcerated,
exorcised, banished, and ignored,

until the paternal Magna, absolute master
of the the Many-Me Mirrors, creates the
cosmic smoke, launches the axial spin,
and retrieves the confused soul shards,

booking passage to faraway gal-axial black holes,
resetting other new beginnings that we have
dearly earned with our karmic expenditures
and truth-seeking expeditions--starting over,

again, right now, yesterday, with tomorrow’s
chapstick moistening our fleet of lips,
with our college yearbooks stacked high
in our personal red Radio Flyer pulled
proudly behind us we glide through the
shimmering gates of Bardo, girding our
emotions for the planning sessions,
for the single life reviews,
for the celebration,
for the next
rebirthing.

Glenn Buttkus

March 2012

Listed as #50 over at The Mag 110

Would you like the author to read this poem to you?

4 comments:

annell said...

An amazing piece of work!

Tess Kincaid said...

I take Radio Flyer rides...

Anonymous said...

Another piece of art, brilliant painting as well

Magnificent:

every one nearly amnesiac
relative to their spiritual siblings, their various
veils of forgetfulness wrapped invisibly over
their identical faces,

sprouting marvelous bone flowers in hundred
pod clusters, many overlapping, interlocking
similar events within the same relative space,
anatomical particles passing by and through
each other;


You might enjoy this:

Tusalava (1929) (film short) (mute the sound)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=flJOXMln4C0

robkistner said...

"with our college yearbooks stacked high in our personal red Radio Flyer pulled proudly behind us we glide through the shimmering gates of Bardo"

...what a marvelous image of the afterlife transition, and what a marvelous image you teamed with your verse here -- cool Glenn...