bones-cast

The mind sports god-extensions.

It’s the mountain from which
       the tributaries spring: self, self, self, self—

       rivering up
               on curling plumes
       from his elaborate
               head-piece

               of smoke.

His head’s on fire.

Like a paleolithic shaman
       working now in the realm of air, he

       folds his hands—

No more casting bones
       for the consulting seeker, this gesture

       seems to mean.
               Your business, his flaming head suggests,

               is with your thought-machine.

       How it churns and churns.

       Lord Should and Not-Enough,
               Mute the Gigantor, looming dumb

               with her stringy hair—

               Deadalive Mom-n-Dad (in the sarcophagi
               of parentheses

               you’ve placed them)—

He’s a yogi, your man
       with a hat of smoke. Serene, chugging out streams

       of constructed air…

Mind’s an accident
       of bio-wiring, is one line of thinking.

We’re animals that shit out
       consciousness, is another.

The yogi says:
       you must understand yourself

       as projected vapor.
               Thus achieve your

               superpower.

—  Dana Levin, “Gods Are in the Valley.”