Ladonna Smith Issue 8 2018-12-24T23:40:40+00:00

LaDonna Smith

The Quest for the Infamous Grail

As my fingers pass through the knots and tangles of my hair, the truncated wedges beneath my feet that make up the voussoir of a lost civilization burn through my shoes, whispering secrets and the screaming lost voices that repeat, and repeat the echoes in the vault. Underground a genesis of movement, conspicuous vulgarians whose lives spent in the rapid whirl and irresistible force of life, stolen by the deception of death as the arch-bridge to an afterlife somewhere beyond the sun, perhaps irradiated into a beauty that none has seen, but blinded by its brilliance, vying for the attention of the gods by prayers and pilgrimage, only to find oneself burned at the stake, by angry mobs of devoted devils, call them humans, and pierced by sword and the damning intentions of claimers of power, who also find themselves buried in the catacombs of caves and waken to the laughter of skulls and bones, never mind the dances of maggots and vermin.

Had sorcery been everything anticipated, perhaps the victim would ride gloriously on the backs of elephants, keepers of wisdom and the gentle caresses of the powerful trunks that blow water and oxygen into the understory of dense vineage and “Boschian” creature habitats, ripe with fruits like human tongues, eyeballs, and livers, the food of the “gods,” acquired by the vultures of sudden death and conquest.

Oh, to sing and vocalize the music of the spheres, as clocks tick off the matter of seconds, light years that fly through darkness decorated by points of light and vagrant dust, a menagerie of translucent spirits whose voluptuous flotations never measured by volume or mass.
Scientific guessing games have continued since metaphysical implications of heliocentric orbits and apparent retrograde motions, largely the cause of the failure of civilization, whose causes of terrestrial cancers and afflictions have buried itself in repeating cycles, as noted by the treasure chest of archeological spoils, conveying keys to a secret carriage of convection, looted by robbers and rulers, hoarded by priests, and eternally returned to the worldly interests of hucksters and peddlers. No matter, the dirt on their shoes is the true treasure, that magically to which they return, and become that same substance.

There will be no hiding place as the “she goddess,” “Mama tit,” planet earth, her astral body spinning out of control, taking no prisoners, but spewing her contents in a spiral motion to infinity. She is the High Priestess who will make her final dance as a figure 8, revealed only to the eyes of the stars, and the dusts which were once her skin, she with her oceans evaporated to the cosmic breath that we think may be the true God. It is nothing more than the principal of cause and effect, like the rapid strokes of a paintbrush.