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Show ^Y "The spiritual process begins with lead." Robert Bly Opaque, dull and round; thrown over the gunwhale of your little boat it plummets, down, down, down; breaking the line, it sinks in mud and ooze and abandoned shells, unrecoverable. Molten, it streamed down the throats of heretics. Cast into balls and slugs, it punctures bodies, exits in bloody flowers or remains, inert, flattened by impact, inside. Beaten into sheets, drowned in acid, hung on wires, it blisters and bleeds voltage, ignites gas in confined spaces, spins steel wheels on steel centers, mandalas for the reptile brain. Poisonous, compounded in atmosphere; accumulating as metallic salts in the marrow, like pain, like pain, like pain thrust below the surface of knowing to build in slow, subversive minorities in the integrity of cells. (cont.) |