THE ZEITGEIST OF TRANSFORMATION

Comingling vexation,

at the consternation of self castigation's weight,

for taking that bite.

Under the discordian lament,

I bit into golden apples,

resplendent with the taste for war,

such that only the vanities bonafide bonfires might know.

Half held revolutions fostering memory of vomitorium's designs,

in the era of a most conspicuous consumption,

rendering the fatal bewilderment of their monuments,

I was drunk, I ate the sandwich, but the mayonnaise had a clear slick on the surface,

I was fully unable to move, for three days,

It took all of my energy to move in bed,

I was hallucinating,

I saw myself as in a church,

the sculptures of angels on either side of the pulpit

became unhinged from their resting place, and became alive,

as the angels flew through the room, I could see them traveling through veins of black and brown and tan rich marble, merged with veins of granite and possibly mica and lithos stone,

The veins were changing as the angels moved through the room,

as if they were being animated and everything in negative space,

was a block regolith carved with the most delicate bodies,

but the stone remained as though fixed in the space,

and the most beautiful wings, they were enormous,

cast me in a spell.

I could have died, I should have died,

I was spared, from botulism possibly.

I was present to their cascading into an internalized monument,

declaring weightless defiance of physical laws.

As the angels moved through the room,

they transcended the fixed granite and marble and yellowed lithos stone,

and they hovered about me, healing me? 

I suddenly felt a sense of bliss

the feeling that I would be OK with dying,

Detachment not from misery,

but from a sort of comfortable sweat,

I was unable to move, immobile it took me all of my strength to turn over in bed,

every iota.  I was unwell for weeks and weeks,

punishment from the gods,

in the zeitgeist of transformation.

Poem and image © 2016 Peter Kaleb Theodoropoulos aka Rockwell Wilder