SEQUENCE OF THE LIBERATRIX

AH! off in a heartbeat, an outbreath, two eyes

in the belly and the worldly mass churns,

ominous and dark, whether former creativities

or post apocalyptic cries: Coyote burns.

this void, this spacious gap of no thing

is not a vacuum, because from it springs 

heaven, earth, and the morning sun arising,

painting the desert red, connecting all the strings.

Coyote comprehends these strings in space

and without fear he laughs his mindlessness aloud.

he sees the old Spinster, attached to a string

and shoots his rifle, cuts in two, Coyote proud

falls flat on the ground, breaking leg and limb,

ribs, jowls, vertebrae, if but fragments cast

are set to clarify this body's fib:

Coyote the person cannot hold fast

under pressure, even the slightest breeze

now blows patches of fur across the sand.

organs desiccate by day, and by night they freeze 

in the post-apocalyptic Coyote &.

per se, and Mouse scuttles up to the corpse

to nudge together again that ruined form,

amalgamations of bone and flesh, distinct, blown

into people, persons, once embodied, sworn

to never die again. Coyote swears,

"it's true" as he thanks dear Mikyo Mouse, he too

has pledged to uphold his central figure's wares:

the dude always comes through.

then these two do go their separate ways.

Mouse to the homestead, with eyes out for Hawk,

Coyote northeastward, into some new fray: 

two lice in his ear bickering the live long day.

       &

day after day in the high desert drought

this one trots trots trots while he dodges traps

and wishes for a creek, some light and cool draught

that would allay this thirst and o! the hunger snaps

until Coyote happens upon a town

full of people, and he asks one of them:

"what is the day, the town, and why do none here frown?" 

and comes the reply: "we're done here with tedium

if for a day at least, for the day is Sunday,

and the place is Boulder, the People's Republic."

"O yes, in Boulder, where to rejoice is the way,

I seem to remember an ever-burning wick," 

Her Highness whose flame of compassion kind 

burns bright in a pool of butter clear,

Her Highness who hosts every Sunday a mind

green with godly speed and motherly care.

so Coyote goes there, and expects to find

a morsel to eat and some drink to sup.

not only is he hungry, and in a thirsty bind,

but he needs help with creation, for he's still just a pup.

       &

he arrives at her home, and sure enough,

there at the gate a fierce demonic guard,

metallic and aflame, to weed out the chaff

stops Coyote short and grills him hard:

"what have you killed for your breakfast this morn?

is it garlic and onion that I smell on your breath?

Her Highness doesn't want any game forlorn

or guests uninvited by the smell of death.

"what have you stolen on your way to here?

you must surely have walked the public street

but I ask, have you paid the pubic fear

besides death, I mean tax, so hard to beat?

"what sex have you had since the midnight last

if it was good, I'm glad, but if it were bad,

say, with another's wife, or anal lust,

had you sucked yourself off, if so, so sad.

"what lies have you told for the love of gold,

to prop yourself up onto thrones so high 

that inferior intellects, befuddled, would be sold

to your own false fruits that bear quick to hells nigh?

"what drink have you drunk to get yourself shmacked,

what herb have you smoked to get yourself stoned?

whether upper or downer, odds are stacked

you're out of control, your gourd is cracked."

despite being caught unaware at the sight,

much less by the demon's ferocious quiz,

Coyote stayed his critic of the present plight

and answered staightaway to the demon's biz.

"I've not killed a thing, that is, a living being,

in fact I've fasted since I can't think when,

of course I am clear of the downfall of killing, 

and breathing deathly smells, to best of ken.

"and as thieving as my reputation may preclude

I've not taken a single thing not offered me.

though never have I paid the tax, The Dude1

as well abode not paying the harming fee.2

"and as for sex, though I am a wild beast

it's been some time since I've a woman seen.

I've dreamed as much, but since the midnight last 

I surely say of sex, and sucking, I am clean.

"I've lied to none, not since I'm short of craft,

but because this is the first I've spoken loud

for an amazing span. I've no intent to fool the daft

or even me. Of speech I am sound as well as proud.

"of all so far I am quite innocent

of killing, stealing, bad sex, and false leads.

but on the point of intoxicants, I must admit

being drunk on devotion and high on counting beads."

the demon guard's reply, "good good, you're in!"

and this one enters Her Highness's yin.

on Sunday mornings Her Highness cleans house

for weary travelers and bourgeoisies alike

to shed their shoes and relaxation rouse:

Coyote, shoeless, sheds his dirty psych,

as if he could, he tries, but spies a cat

black as no moon night whose authority,

so peerless in his realm, so very fat

his puke has power, rain of blessings pee,

as long as pee is free of prejudice,

this black cat would be seen for what he is:

a man if his station as diamond guard

would mind the cushions of Her Highness hard.

these pillows, soft and homely seats for equipoise

take meditators, felines, and families free

to chant the scriptures, fart and puke, and watch tv.

to Coyote's bum: heavens of the thirty three.

her great room, room of life and living high

on love and hollywood royalties: here gods

in rafters throw entire carnations down

when devotees of Liberatrix take delight.

devoted women, elderly, liberal, bent

on gathering the cause to birth again

if ever they truly have, are diligent 

to sow their seeds within the minds of men.

one says to Coyote, she says, "come with me,  

you caver, to my cave," the gaze in her eye

obsidian flint, her only weapon save

for empty space, none other than sky.

and then there were likes from the free state Texan.

a southerner with real twang, bow drill fire

spark red and yellow wild, "there aint no sin

in born-agains who prep the seeds of peace

so dire they greet this Liberatrix meek

in face and strong in arms." silver hair sleek,

she says to Coyote, she says "you look

dusty, come freshen yrself in my shady nook."

the sight was plain to see, water pure, clean

for drinking, washing, moons reflecting suns

so vast that this recipient obscene,

even he comes clean of dusty tons.

so they all sat there on lily bloom seats:

all the old women and Coyote proud

to praise Liberatrix with upturned feet

on twisted legs, their trunks, tender and sound,

done channel Her Highness into the room.

from up atop she comes ambling on down

the stairs until she plops a good loud boom:

one hundred thousand shook the town.

Her Highness, she says, "have you heard, His Holiness

within his home was raided quick of currency, 

his mountain hours spent in the interest of crime,

though benefactors wished for a better clime.

let's chant to refill this merit store, 

to stop the pipeline, put an end to frack,

to grant the right to choose to crown kings of yore.

go: chant yourself yellow, green, red, blue and black."

their speech went henceforth pure and white as day.

       &

"worlds and inhabitants, praise after praise

we offer to the mother green to go 

as lightning feet quick with the cure of saints

comingling matrixes incognito!

"worlds and inhabitants, praise after praise

we offer to the frowning face of she

who deals blows to crooked premises,

and stamps them to dust and smithereens!

"worlds and inhabitants, praise after praise

we offer to her spirit tsunami

the moment after ego loses hold

to swim in blissful seas, saltwaters void!"

this perfect creation for people save

to live on light unlimited and rich,

for babies, good dreams, religion enclave

where no one goes hungry...Coyote twitch:

Coyote has the thought to have a bite to eat.

"I wonder what it is that we will eat so soon?

to be sure, we'll have tea. o could there be a treat

such like macaroons or cake, ice cream with a spoon?"

then thereupon the pious stop their speech.

they promptly turn their gaze soft straight ahead.

the devotees gaze straight ahead to such:

the emptiness of bellows, just waiting to be fed.

"long life to His Holiness, 

Her Highness and the rest!"

       &

"thank you, thank you kindly," the host replies

"and now it's time for tea, so come to dine.

we've plenty of chairs for everyone, so rise

and come with me." the women were benign

but Coyote couldn't help but unfold his legs

and stagger fast to sup some tea and morsel eat.

all the sugar and fat and caffeination begs

this diabetic dog slow down, but twitching feet

don't stop on account of the kind and kempt.

contrarywise, despite no small attempt

to look cool, Coyote crams a mouthful

while women sit around and yak an earful

"conservatives are out of line to say

a woman could reject a load of sperm."

"it's a load of fertilizer, and all the same

they aim to cut abortions, no matter the term."

then in between a bite of cake and fruit

this one ventures a shot from the hip,

"I see your line dividing red and blue,

but drops red and white do life equip

"and when there's life there's a person, no?

don't liberal folk too seek for life to grow?"

but Coyote was alone on this gangly point.

Her Highness then went on to deal the blow:

"you look like a person yourself, but in fact

your nature is none other than a dog.

you show up for Liberatrix sacrosanct

and think only of food, hardly analog

"compared with our devout proceedings here,

you are no more than a beggar hobo,

a dharma bum whose true face is Coyote.

we know who you are, so scram! get! go!"

but not before he could cram in his mouth

some nuts and another sup of tea.

as well as his mouth, Coyote stuffs cake

down yonder nadir south beneath his tail. 

his secret pocket full, and with beads in his pouch

Coyote politely excuses himself.

"thank you, my ladies, now I'll be leaving,"

and off he went into the hills, aloof.

        

This excerpt being the first verses of "Illusory Bodies", a mock western epic of mythic proportions, was composed by Steven R.A. Johnson in Boulder, CO, 2014, in the intersection and union of indigenous North American story-line with Indo-Tibetan "mandala principle". 

       &&&

The author, and performer, Steven RA Johnson, reading some old Coyote lines, at No Ropes Universal poetry reading, Trident Bookstore and Cafe, Boulder, CO, Summer 2013.   

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