As Rome’s eternal inferno kindled on the souls of deceived believers too poor to purchase her indulgences, Martin Luther hammered his pertinence, nay, the poor’s pertinence, upon the very heart of the Pope’s desire for extravagant expansion.
How could I ever hope to be so relevant? So engaged with any truth so grand that the very walls of holy power should tremble with its terrible fear, not just of my words, but the way those words would resonate with the resolution of the masses that power holds so deep within the vile rectum of unjustifiable servitude?
This is, and, of course, always has been my dream; my lofty dream; my boundless and unending dream; my arrogant dream that I have no past piety to justify it on. Yet, I hold it still, steadfast and unrelenting deep within the desperate and distraught bog of my inner being, while I fight off the exegetic designation of a swine, and, moreover, the inclination to believe such insipid spuriousness.
What doors do I have to nail my passion to? Columned halls where laws are drawn, debated, and deliberated upon by sly tongues of silver? Halls whose cornerstones were laid amidst the pageantry of Masonic ritual, thereby having given rise to the4 modern Oligarchs who ogle their perversions on the theaters of syndicated media? Taunting us, as they are want to do, with the despondent reality that we have no recourse that will find its light by simply nailing it to a door.
Have we no heroes? Have we no heart to rally our plight behind? No central voice to pour our collective necessity upon? No pillar around which we could gather our thoughts into a mind so immense that every mountain of power should tremble so intensely that they snap back, lashing out with their final vestiges of violence? That being their only ineffectual response to a populace so beautifully coalesced around something so wonderfully necessary; so incredibly pertinent to life itself – the very simple truth that love is the very soul of an awakened consciousness, and the contract upon which and enlightened future must inevitably be writ.
This piece is available with others in the Nada Dada Motel edition of Harbinger Asylum, available on Amazon.com.