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Feeding the Five Thousand
By Rudolph Lewis
I want to spread a
table so every word counts more than—
a dress up or a soirée
for the wine & cheese tribe, or wild
drum nights that
cannibalize sense & tradition. I love
a killing field in
which nothing dies but bruising vibes
& over-rocked rhythms.
Like spring breezes on the leaves,
the body is caressed
without lapping or slithering.
I need a feast
timeless as a jazz classic like “The Creator
Has a Master Plan,”
regal riffs enduring as Langston’s rivers
simple & masterful as
“A Love Supreme.” I desire sound
morsels, every
syllable a universe reaching out for a grain
of sand, exploring the
distant shores casting aside the bush
meat of despair. I
choose spices vigorous as John Henry
in his crisis moment,
ready to hammer the rod deeply into
the rock of flim-flam,
my tongue ringing bitter clear as truth.
I long for a last meal
in which Judas turns away from
the stomach’s riot &
the puffed promises of shekels—for
a bread & blood rite
that jars wine miracles with the chosen
word. Cake nor coke alone will silence the hungry
mob.
© 2008 Revised 17
December 2011 |
