*The Prophet

The Prophet -Kahlil Gibran
One of the many wisdoms is that there is nothing prophetic about The Prophet. The rest of it stands for itself. Searching, loving, curious, watchful, strong, these words. I would like to forcefully butt heads with Gibran, maybe push him, hard, slap-push him, in the chest, see what he does. Maybe it’s my mood. Maybe I’m angry that I believe, even know, even first-hand, that there is an underlying peace in the world and yet can still have this steaming vehemence clamping down my last four molars. It’s a pressure that really does build in the ears. I would surely lose to Gibran in arm-wrestling. I can feel it now, the cramp popping my bicep like a popsicle stick. My sclera spilling with blood. My heart slinging around my chest cavity like an animate, vengeful pinball. Like a loose fist trying to dig its fingernails out of my elastic sternum. The fleshlayers holding tight though. Until a pithy, hot, rancid spraying of my heart blood… staining my pants, and a nice carpet… not even very much blood, but blood with debris, stinking. Coagulating even outside of me into a fecal black and magenta syrup. Maybe it’s my mood. Or the crystal wine glass shattering in my palm. Or maybe I really do feel it, the prophecy of war. The longing for war. Crimes against humanity. Sickness and dying. Maybe I want to hear the feeling of crushing a skull, of listening to my jaw torn out of place. Maybe the drugs should be stuck into the neck. Right at the trachea, listening to your own wet wind of who knows what sickness. Maybe there is something in the sky that I can bang my head on. The stomachless sensation of being flat-hit in the head with a billet. Then vomit. Bile squeegeeing through your tear-ducts. There is more to life than violence. There is the following death.
“And when you have reached the mountain top, then you shall begin to climb.”
“That whenever I come to the fountain to drink I find the living water itself thirsty; And it drinks me while I drink it.”