Daughters of Babylon (43 page)

The Merchant of Images plies her wares

transacting ’neath canopies of dragon

fly wings with coinage of silver too quick

for you to count the change; she’ll bide your stares

in exchange for a taste from your flagon,

but don’t be deceived: affection’s a trick

of the eye from a deck she’s stacked with all

that you’ve pilloried, all that you’ve loved; she’s

tested your market, she knows what you’ll buy.

You may try to outfit her like a doll

or outwit and unseat her—she will freeze

until you leave or learn to humbly supply

what she needs. Neither choice will disorder

the firstborn of this familial quarter.

The Guardian of Supply is plain of face.

You’ll pass her in a crowd and not look twice;

on this she does rely, while all the while

she notes your attitude and keeps apace

providing more and more of avarice

toward joy or grief, she cares not which. Your style,

like the buttons on your coat she’ll push or

fashion new ones when from happiness you

burst—the choice is yours, and no one else is

gathering to limit or suppress your

bountiful experience of life. Do

not be taken in by feudal classes’

antidote. The merchant guilds of fraud die

neglected by sweet sister of supply.

Oh, how her sibling does enjoy the trend

of those who think they hold an upper hand

by means of pain. The Dominatrix true

rejects the trivial, does not pretend

she cannot hear you when you ask. Demand

is our twin sister’s mastery, her view

of vortex unimpeded, she is brash,

intolerant of lack, loves imagery

of best and most and happiest; she breaks

the weakness of timidity, she’ll smash

the indecisive, throw monotony

like tepid water out the window. Fakes

she can’t abide, there is no concept in

our family of flaw, regret or sin.

Demand is high, supply unsure, three kin

of Mercantilia stimulating pulse

and drive, you feel alive, a need to buy

or interject, you’ve wrecked before, again,

so what? The knee jerk of a mad impulse

restores the balance to—but wait! Just try

this once not acting or to think in haste

and watch who comes, who’s curious at what

you’ve done. The fulcrum, fourth of seven, seeks

to leverage thought to higher ground, not waste

through argument what’s done before—no but,

just more and both. Reduce from years to weeks

the evidence of commerce practiced clean

by living the abundant Golden Mean.

Sister Five, Sequencia, says nothing

of the world as it is; to some she’s mute

observing from nucleic center all

that spins, she’s singular, unwed, she sings

to her equivalent, no less. Refute

her calls to trade and be assured of fall,

for data she engages includes all whose

limbic centers, 3-legged stools, are wobble-

free. Monopoly cannot be ruled save

in a fishy bowl, guaranteed to lose.

Continuous alarm, selling trouble

is a karma-based economy, grave-

headed. Only “con sequencia”, by

sequence deep-observed can plenitude fly.

Sister Six you’ll seldom see amidst her

sibling company, she has small use for

gatherings, she is the scout, the comet

head who flies, advancing with no other

aim in mind but joy, momentum-sped. Your

slow considerations will never get

between her and her light, your sordid talk

of shadow is the back end of the cave.

Good luck with that! If anti-trust makes cents

to you, invest—if not, fire up, unblock

those wings suspended for too long. Behave

as though permission were a sin. No fence

to climb or break, begin! The sisters six

plus one have heard your ascent to magicks.

I am the seventh sister of the clan,

Cantilia is my name. I flow within

the bloodstreams of the race you call mankind.

You are my sea, la mer, the reach you plan

as if you weren’t already here, undimmed,

full content closer than a thought. You’ll find

the sisterhood has unspelled words like heal

and seek. You are not ill, you’re lacking naught!

Supply, demand and imagery who live

the other side of pause know how you feel—

do you, or are you pillared salt? They’ve got

you covered. Let go my hand now, and give

your heart to pure abundancy. You’re free

to recreate Bab-El’s society.

by Wiley Forrest,

translated from Middle English by V.L.

Little Fiendy Whozit has a weeny voice;

he rips away his little gifts and claims he had no choice.

Little Fiendy Whozit thinks he knows what’s right from wrong,

and he likes to teach you lessons with a big bang-bong.

Now Fiendy might be good with wood or teasing little girls,

but push him past his talent zone, you’re in for quite a whirl.

The things you ask he will not do, except to impress others;

to corner him or force his hand, it isn’t worth the bother.

He’ll drag his feet and raise a stink and sooner whack than kiss ya,

then polish up his nasty sticks, insist he doesn’t miss ya.

We’ve all a Fiendy Whozit in our little bag of tricks;

he feeds on disappointment that he fashions into bricks.

The thing you must remember about Fiendy Whozit’s wall

is there’s nothing there worth nothing, so don’t make him crawl.

The time may come when Fiendy finds his R and L,

but until he shows up friendly, let him stay in…well,

for now, let’s keep on skipping rope and holding hands for joy;

there’s plenty good and plenty more for every girl and boy,

And should you meet sweet Whozit on your ever-loving way,

please tell him that I’m sending only happy thoughts today;

and if my little horns and tail occasional appear,

they’re nothing much to fuss about or fear, my dear.

*
Mitote
is a Nahuatl term for the cacophony, chaos, or mind chatter that society inflicts on us from the moment we are born, to confuse our natural ease and affinity with Creation. Mitote begins with our parents who tell us, “Life is this way. It is this way…” and extends to teachers, church and workplace.
Mitote
can also be applied in a positive way, realigning us at any moment with our innate truth and goodness. The following is a sample of the latter.

This is who you are!

You are the Dawn of Life

who chased the Sun to where

she hid in the Cave of Shadows

afraid of her own heat

with the message, “Rise! Rise!”

This is who you are!

You are jabalí, Wild Boar,

who parts the grasses that bow

and flutter in subservience to Wind

and, knowing you are servant

to none, cry out, “See! See!”

This is who you are!

You are Jaguar of the silent

paws and twitching whiskers who

travels the corridors of Nagual to the

hearts of the bewildered and

counsels, “Hear! Hear!”

This is who you are!

You are Black Road, rift

of the Milky Way, from

between your great Void the

game of Life spills out, and you