The Preexistent Race Descends/ Section 8

By Brian George

Birds plead their case before the presence wrapped in rags: “We obey you. They won’t.” The boy attends the war fought to prevent the Earth’s beginning.

*

The once great powers argue in a small tent by the ocean.

The wave towers above the boy. The armies led by Archeopterix advance. A few leave wing prints on North Africa. Green, to destruction flung, giants copulate with fish. Turning against light the Earth devolves. Tribes laugh at the god in bondage. Dead kamikazes mass.
                         

The institute above the steps of Asia flares.

*

The empire falls. On a dock I curl up with my arms around a crate.

*

She who leads took over when I slept.

*

It is late at night. Summer. Wind circles my apartment. For the whole season I have watched my vision grow.

My wish was to create. The muse hears. She gives access to more worlds than I could gainfully employ. It has come to my attention that there is no one in my chair. Even ghosts do not believe that I exist. Few can tell that I am pregnant with the shape of things to come. I have less self than the shadow thrown by a disassembled colossus. The door slams as I leave to wander down the railroad tracks. It is late at night.

Smoke billows from the tall stacks of a factory now abandoned. There are thousands of feet waiting for their shoes. If I dared I would untie my own to walk barefoot through the constellations. Clothes also are unnecessary. It is said that humans are the cattle of the gods. I alone am free.

*

My ear expands! In a bubble the Egyptoid eunuchs buzz.

*

As the dead project me through the haunted arch I turn to smile at a subject. Giants blink from the effects of too much sacrifice. The winds at Cydonia freeze my bent bones to a plow.

Grand unified conspiracies obscure the monuments on Mars.

*

Where the snare's architect puts evidence new fissions bare the strata.  We disinter the technocratic phallus of the ancients. My muse shakes me. I watch myself attack the living stone I cling to. Kicking and screaming I am dragged off into hyperspace. The philosopher’s stone has no sense of compassion. It is larger than the wheel of history. It is fueled by Soma. It does not believe that human death is real.

The force preserves. Its surrogate destroys.

*

Wave on wave they crash against the moorings. The depths discharge the wealth of a lost continent. For the book fight waves of Mesozoic hawks. The horizontal every time looks newer than a dream. The foundations of the dream tilt.

*

It is a summer made of oceanic scents. I fit my vision in a seed with 8 thousand years left over. A fog settles on my city and its lamps.

*

The ancient returns from exile leaning on a staff. He burns the aviary.

(Illustration: Adolph Gottlieb)

After the Bhagavad Gita

By Brian George

1

They could not grasp him—for he was born. With Brahma Vishnu plays. The planet vanishes. Of  pure stock. Frightening his yoga. I saw the boy test weapons far from his own field.

*

In those days the omnipotent were beasts. To pervert the teacher's judgment was a challenge. The boy found a head to wear. “Is x-ray vision violent?” he asks. The chant exits the tornado. Vam ! They launch the egg. It burns. The clouds above the destruction are gigantic. The 8-spoked eye of the teacher rolls. Species fed with blood before the institute march.

*

Tell what my sons and the sons of Pandu did—when they massed at Kurukshetra.

*

At first there was noise. Forces blew. Suspended animation froze the shouts. Their wheels did not advance.

*

Krishna says: “Hesitate to kill the gods will laugh at you. Sympathy is seen as fear. The dead call you names. Therefore fight.”

*

Is what was? Was there once a time when you or they did not exist? The story bring forth.

*

Declining health made speech approximate. The contraption a work by Visvakarman begs. It wants fuel. Is too much enough? Asia smokes. Visions haunt the creator of industrial descent. Think of others: be. Determine what actors crouch behind your tongue.



*

Can a robot cause an earthquake with its chrome extensor arm? You have.

*

Teacher: is direct perception of the self a gift that came between us? The star sat on the head of the Bharata. Is the enemy light? Space junk hovers. Static grows. Knowledge stops. The transplanted wave carouses. In the future you will need a book to read.

*

I will put the shadow of the giants here—or perhaps there. The city flames. As it was then—now. I appropriate the Soma; it occurs to me that I own your work. Beasts board the departing wheel. Presences consume.

*

The clouds are anxious. For 36 thousand years we wait for you to come. You are on the way.

2

Labyrinths march. Lands tilt. Now starts the echo of oceanic flux. The lord of Sthanu appears—to withdraw. A survivor is raped by birds. Castes intermix. Crime commits the Dharma to an institute that flies—where doctors hoard the seeds. Friends don't recognize friends. Good families kill each other.

*

He hallucinates a gulf. Stage sets blow from crags. His head is a fort inhabited by few. Winds whack Nanga Parvat. Spells from Saturn quarantine the species.

*

Worlds aimed by the nonexistent science ring as they collide!

*

You serve. It is we who say if you are marked for death. East the west sends ants to scale the ruins of the Vedas. Unnatural disasters roam. Shake to confront the energies that judge you.

3

The early plant fossils. Signs race the north. Dig from Tyranosaur's throat the weapon Agni cast. Its unapproachable power smokes. By the thousands the bald creators turn to cows.

*

Wonders fight the archaic senate. Tornadoes victimized by building codes endeavor to move the Earth. Drunk with harmony the gods roar. Yoga says: perfect the muse of the catatonic self. Arts I test you. I pass for a flying rock. Is the war continuous? Great. Webs advance on the rusted spokes of history. A frightening moon speeds. Says the boy to the Bharata, “Here I am!”

*

The teacher opens—as if his touch were a vehicle to ride. Death creates joy. Space revolts. I hang a tribe from the wish fulfilling tree. The troops that flatten Saryanavat laugh.

4

 

Cities implode. A crowd falls on its face. We kiss the triumphant shadow of the self. Rods and crosses streak the red sky over Earth. Who knows the motivations of Svarbanu? He blots the sun.

(Illustration: Brian George: Shiva, Dancing, 2001)