The Wretched and the Blood of the Earth

Where does the human become one with the animal...?
On which terrestial plane do the two become One...?

The footprint ~ in blood, of blood, with blood- lingers on with
Standing Bear, Sitting Bull, Geronimo et al...
Yet we are unable to validate their existence.
We authenticate this history with dysphemisms.

Why are we afraid of the animal...? the bestial...?
We are engaged... we are immersed ... we are complicit...
In Blood, with Blood, of Blood.

Why do we fear the primordial...? Why do we recoil of the mention of the bestial...?
We are engaged in all the savagery... in all the depravity... in all the cruelty:
Iraq, Afghanistan, Pakistan~ in Blood, with Blood, of Blood~ Sudan, the Congo~
We wear the Blood, we drink of it~the Blood baptises us~ and we celebrate with it...
We laud the blood footprints...

Blood... we relish in its light... we revel in its colour... we smell its scent...
Blood... its light... its colour... its scent lingers... it permeates the temporal and spatial

Of Blood, in blood, with Blood... we cherish

When does the animal become human?

The blood engages us... it solicits us... to walk over the fragments...

The blood lingers... the smell remains... it stains~ its carbon print is indelible~

I feel the fragments from the shattered glass; i cannot remove the shards from the abyss of my mind...
The blood is pervasive: its scent and its blemish still haunts me...
I am unable to expunge the images of Gaza, Tamil Nadu, Falluja, Kandahar, Darfur...

My feet traverse the shards of the shattered glass windows, i cannot eradicate the blood images that are fragments in my inner chamber... I yawp over the rooftops of the Buddhas, but my bellows remain in a vacuum of sealed blood wells.

It is only the oasis of my mind that triggers my crys for the Buddhas of Bamiyan:
It was during the third century CE that these 50 metre structures were erected; they were indicative of a spiritual culture..

The blood lingers... it begins to secrete from all of my orifices...
It is only the abyss of my mind that triggers my yawps...

I begin to walk on the shattered fragments at Bamiyan, Kandahar, Gaza, Falluja; i am unable ~i cannot eradicate~ to expunge from my mind the blood images that seep from the shattered buildings... from the streets of Falluja...

Humans are still primordial... the grunts have been replaced by the AK-47s... by the M-16s

I am unable to yawp over the rooftops of Asia...

No one will hear me...
No one will care...
No one will look up...
No one will smell the scent...
No one will walk over the shards of glass...
No one will see the blood stained streets...


I will be alone... and i will not yawp my barbaric yawp
Because it will be the bellow of a coward not a hero;
Heroes are extinct just ike theTyrannosaurus Rex.

A carbon print lingers... ~just like the scent of the human blood that endures...~

I must find the carbon print... it must proffer answers...

I must return to the shattered glass...
I must continue to walk... walk over this fragmented glass...
I must return to the shards of glass
I must be conscious of these splinters... these fragments... this blood... this pain... this blood that flows~exudes~
I must run... i must continue to run.. Escape is my only refuge..

Yet
Return... is
Death.
But
I must return
Only to confront that which
I appall:
The
Primordial.