Sammasati

St. Patrick and Crom Cruach

O Lord of Worms. Above your movement fields blight or fallow. The others who walk after you drink the wells dry or poison them with pestilence. Far above your children grow ill, suffering unknown deaths. You bring food and shelter, crows and disease.

How difficult to comprehend, a gestalt so alien and inhuman. A god for worms. No arms, no legs, no eyes, a blind burrower beneath the earth. The tunnels.

An intricately interlocking lattice that took millennia to craft, constantly changing as you move in blindness, directed by some geometry impossible to comprehend. Crumbling tunnels bend the bedrock into impossible shapes and tuck dirt into impossible spaces, coated in an ichor that drives men mad to smell at the surface, let alone to see it, touch it, be covered in it. A great rumbling from somewhere deep in the complex the only signal of a change to the lattice, this great 3 dimensional sigil. A great rumbling that only happens once every 300 years. What are you calling forth?

St. Patrick who smote you? So that we would leave you be, to your work? The days I feel cold, like there’s no blood in my body, I can call you. Oh Lord of Circulation. What sacrifice for this boon? Your incense is a dead bird in the road, or the impression left in the eye after looking at the orange cap of a needle on the side of the road. How many earthquakes are yours? How many happen as you tunnel from here to in-between to the other world and back again?

The place of dead houses, half a mile from here. Where the airport grows the houses are abandoned, no trespassing, slowly losing their life, the cicada having left. Soon decay and crumble and be reborn a parking lot. Nature sneaks in around the edges already soon to be manicured, beaten back by man’s hand. The land needs the change, humanity its agents, its workers. Its apoptosis.

Fear of transformation, the worst possible fear, due to the inevitability of metamorphosis. Extinction describes the strongest shapes and the deepest scars. The birth cry like bell peals that start fast and gradually slow and then stop over a lifetime. I used to work next door to crime scene cleanup. Once they threw some bloody carpet into our dumpster, making my boss furious. 

A phonecall later and 2 late teenage boys wander into the shop, angry, and insincerely apologetic. Baltimore gifted their employers with a high turnover rate. No child should see those things. Tourists wandering the inner harbor, in jean shorts, socks, black sandals and wind breakers while a bloated blue body is pulled from the depths by the science center. 

It is inevitable, it is life. It is horrible and it happens. Why block it out? Crossing your fingers or throwing salt over a shoulder, these are the wrong type of superstitions, ungainful not useful. One day you will die. 

Cemetery, Cemetery, 1, 2, 3 Looked at the ground its coming for me