I read one night about the ancient Greeks
And their ways
Of getting in touch
With the touch of Gods;

A God's touch.

Ethylene scientists believed,
Or
Deduced or
Gathered or
Came to the conclusion of.

Whatever it was,
It was official.

And I believed them.
It was in the text.
If it's not in a book, what is it in?
A book is a sole tome
Of resistance. It holds
Scattered souls wrapped in
Undefinable, unbreakable truth.

Granted, it may sound like
Scaled fish on a bridge in the
Middle-Madness of Summer
(Underpants stuck to the Legs
And Your Breath Smelling like
The ***** of ***** Feet)
But the book, as it always will,
Will survive.

The book burns
At the same degree
Of the human spirit -

No degree.

Survival, for better or worse,
Is in our
Biology.

If there is no tomorrow,
There is no today.

I saw the Greeks in my fine book that day.
They showed me an ancient woman
Huffing great huffs from Mother Earth
To see a vision of Her birth, not His.

He stole Her offering
And I will never forgive him.

And come at me with didactic
Beginnings and etymology of creation.
It's just like a man
To want to possess
Rather than claim the rightful heir

To no one or nothing.

I read one night about the stones
Those women
Slept on to become
The guides of scared men
Lustful for power

But too lazy
To suffer for it

How far we've come, I said
To the stars
Who I had no hand

In ever teaching

How to shine.