Vinum

[Shem]

Wine
Vinum
Vinum Vero
Wine truth
In wine there is truth
But what truth,
What do we find in those drunken moments
When we confront ourselves with defenses down
What will you find
Are you the person you thought
Or some cheap parody of a long forgotten ideal
Do your books tally
Bah
Dose it matter
What is there but now
And what am I if not now
And now drunk on wine
And now alone
But tomorrow is another day
And the light of day expels the shadows
And lets me
Live.

[joel]

In vino veritas— and like a hymn
that lingers Sunday evening quietly,
persistently and long like nothing but
the blood of Jesus— Jesus— Jesus Christ—
a swig of wine to guzzle down the bread,
a mystery of faith that faith consumes
the word by which all harmonies subsist
within and under foodstuffs that exist
because genetic engineering looms
with human power, all that lies ahead
to be revised by human wit and spliced
anew for better wines and breads— yet what
are they but host again for mystery
of true humilitas, of Elohim?

[Shem]

The host upon the tongue
What but a symbolic rite
Of cannibalistic rebirth
From death life
Mortalitas animalis
Universal theme!
From the earliest planters
To the symbolic effigy of today
From the decay of the grave
Does new life arise
Rebirth of sun
After the dearth of winter
From fields of waste
To fields of plenty
Elohim, Yahweh
Heh-Vav-heh-yod
Hallelujah.

[joel]

And isn't it a too rebirth
for classic eyes that Latinize
a left-to-right approach to Earth—
like revolutions' youthful rage
dementia glosses gone with age—
to read the signs of truth's designs
in steady lines from West to East,
(haggard old tit —> milky young breast)
and play the Western day's rewind
across the mind, a subtle kind
of search for life revisionist
by lifetime reconstructionists—
and then a squirrel dumb appears
from Liver’s locus to the heart’s
when suddenly the reading starts
to shift anew—and eyesight steers
from Finis right to Anfang left
on letters other tongues have cleft
for This Is How It Is For Truth –
Heh Vav Heh Yod –
little births anew explode—
and which way on a two-way road
ought we to go for Yes or No
or ditch the endless traffic jam
for shoulder of the highway picnics
with backward Rednecks, classy Beatniks—
peanutbutter bread and jam
Dr Seuss Green Eggs and Ham
Berkowitz and Daddy Sam
Abusers’ or the Poets’ slam—
and isn’t it a too rebirth
that we’re so clearly needing here?