Vox Populi

A Public Sphere for Poetry, Politics, and Nature

Jon Tribble: Anubis Online

… every god that is dead can be conjured again to life, as any fragment of rock from a hillside, set respectfully in a garden, will arrest the eye.

—Joseph Campbell, Historical Atlas of World Mythology

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A feather doesn’t weigh enough to judge the hearts trapped here,

these pyramids of endless pathways wired out and into nothing.

Take a mind and unravel its chatter, capture and attach images

of the dead and living dead crowding the electronic antechambers,

 

these pyramids of endless pathways wired out and into nothing,

and you will find them all eventually, sisters and brothers

of the dead and living dead crowding the electronic antechambers,

a congregation of the bought and sold, exposed and invisible.

 

And you will find them all eventually, sisters and brothers

in this new temple, the spiders weaving all together for this web,

a congregation of the bought and sold, exposed and invisible

at once, alone and together as the keyboards act as abacus

 

in this new temple, the spiders weaving all together for this web

of whirring engines worrying the underworld and heavens

at once, alone and together as the keyboards act as abacus

taking a full account of the human stupor, the silly whine

 

of whirring engines worrying the underworld and heavens

with the flesh and scores, the flashing news of yesterday forever

taking a full account of the human stupor, the silly whine

of passing fashion, the lasting pain of loss eroding in the crash

 

with the flesh and scores, the flashing news of yesterday forever

behind the next moment and the next.  Manners, like the decay

of passing fashion, the lasting pain of loss eroding in the crash

waiting for every system, the simplest act of kindness missing

 

behind the next moment and the next—manners like the decay

of a corpse abandoned by the desert birds—only the jackal

waiting for every system, the simplest act of kindness missing

from the long teeth, the cry in the dark the only reminder

 

of a corpse abandoned by the desert birds.  Only the jackal

knows the sharp edges bone becomes under the pressure

from the long teeth, the cry in the dark the only reminder

the way back is forward, the chain a trick, a deception that

 

knows the sharp edges bone becomes under pressure.

When the opening of the mouth releases the spirit’s essence,

the way back is forward, the chain a trick, a deception that

opens window upon window until there is no way home.

 

When the opening of the mouth releases the spirit’s essence

and the user becomes the used, the browser conspires,

opens window upon window until there is no way home

except to follow the jackal, to stand before judgment’s scales

 

and the user becomes the used.  The browser conspires

to take the heart, though there are no jars to hold it, no way

except to follow the jackal, to stand before judgment’s scales,

tumble into the maw of this hunger.  So let us gather close

 

to take the heart, though there are no jars to hold it, no way

to take a mind and unravel its chatter, capture and attach images,

tumble into the maw of this hunger.  So let us gather close—

a feather doesn’t weigh enough to judge the hearts trapped here.


 

Copyright 2017 Jon Tribble

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Anubis, Egyptian God of the Afterlife

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The Body of Abel Found by Adam and Eve by William Blake, 1826 (Tate)

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