waldopaper

The bronze meatball 

So nerved, you fought wisely and well;

And live, twice live in life and story…

Melville   

It was the Pharaoh’s obelisk from hell.  Rosa was just coming of age when she saw the birds flying in formation… the girl’s cage when the cycle starts.  She saw the birds… and attained (blink, smack, do ink, whatever) eye Enlightenment (whatever that is).  Wisdom of sages, ages, whatever.  And a choice:  stop World War I… or go through the Portal with Queen Mab.  There is a Gatehouse on Cemetery Hill in Gettysburg   There dwelleth Kapu Mate, Mother of Graves, but her name is Elizabeth too.  Thirty thousand years old.  They are.  Murmuration of starlings so far.  Starlings are baby stars.  Like Pleiades. Queen on the hill.  Whoever she was.  Elizabeth Thorn, whose lot was to keep the portal, forfeited her eldest daughter to whatever you might call nationalism.  It is a spirit thing… real as typhoid or cannonball.  Or aircraft.  Don’t you think the Mother of Graves could see her own?  It’s a little dog thrown from the bone zone.

Rosa’s eighteen day old baby ears heard Lincoln’s Gettysburg address ringing in a November air barely clear of the death stink.  And now we see her as a little bronze meatball under Elizabeth’s dress.  A new birth of freedom. 

Also the damned obelisk.  Think about that.    Ever since they figured out how to lock up the fucking food.  Nationalism.  I swear the gooks carried truck parts all the way from the North Pole and assembled them to fuck with us.  We blew them apart and sent LRRPs to check the burned out wrecks.  And guess what.  They had no fucking engines.  Hobo spat into the fire.  Having eyes, see ye not? and having ears, hear ye not? and do ye not remember?  Church boy, cackled the Hen.  You get this way when you drop acid.  And you babble this Civil War shit you egg.  Great Remembering, ya dig?  I do, I dew remembered Henry and started humming a song from 1972.   Aint it funny how the night moves.  What wondrous love is this droned the rebs and yanks alike going into battle.  Down the chute like cattle. 

To bear the dreadful burden of my soul.