The Faux Pas Press #171: Hopeful Hanged Man

The Faux Pas Press #171

Hopeful Hanged Man

By Chambo Fresh

Drink from canned spirit soda fuzzing with new insight, not really new. New to me. Finding will within prayer and artistic explosion as I see the beheaded heroes honored from all points in expanding space. Moving fingers in magical cadence to resurrect what has been dead within - like a gnostic Christ emerging from a tomb where the doubting Thomas see for himself. Like all moments of human experience where death has been the obstacle and the Seed of Isaac battle once again the unsavory seed of Ishmael, where Father Abraham couldn't keep his dick in his pants and residual, syrupy residual now must be washed clean. Ethnic cleansing masquerading like freedom propagation. I drink from that can of Coca-cola sacrament, eating prison food to sustain life. And in all of it - in the belly of provincial Afghanistan - I too can see it. That our actions ripple into ethereal eternity, into 96% dark-matter and energy. Lonely is the road that leads to thine eternity. But there must be a place for all of us under the Sun. The Road that leads to the fulfillment of all dreams, ripped from the clothe of butterfly wings, sheathed in a scabbard of hope. Breathe. That is all that he requires and act like your behaviors matter eternally.

So, limited words have proven yet my only ally. Intelligent thinkers reason with others to create a safe havens from fearful scribes writing jolly tunes of matter, forging metal into scientific perfection, making the world safe for all who play the game. Like hopeful hanged men, the presidential emissaries drop cordial inquiries at the doorstep of swindlers. Drop invitations to the Queen's Ball and embezzle funds from US AID. No implications to be made nor doped weapons to invade. Ending the cycle of decade-long strife, he sent him here - the Hopeful Hanged Man. Once fool beguiled by Western academic circles, now Prince of Monterrey once again. He dances rhythms with the General Son and refuses glasses of wine for the battles won. But writes a hymn to Joseph and to Hyrum too. For all our wars have found their end too. Qualified and dignified. A canvass clean for all the times I've lied. Sins drip through faucet to pen and the Apostate Hymns are alive again. You see, it was not about pleasure or about debauchery, not about heaven or apostasy, not driving or about a doc. Not about the Child or the discoveries lot. It was about you. And about you. And about you. And about you.

Jerusalem, Syria, Calcutta - fall into ruin when a gnostic Christ-self emerges from the ruins. This graveyard of empires. For there was one sent here for this time and place. One who will return home with out leaving a trace - but the battles he'd won not from hoisting his aim. But from accepting with wholeness not from placing the blame. The Hopeful Hanged Man sweating with gold - yes, the Fool embodied returns home from the Night and its Fabric's Fold. So, don't act like you are not making the stamp to leave on the ether like ink on a tramp. For in the confusion, in the storm, on the ramp - the world full of darkness just needs one perfect lamp.