INAUGURATION’S AUGMENTED AUGURIES

by Michael Boughn

How much sense you yield to G
depends on weight delight bears
in sounding’s jubilation, whooping
and yowling being a bit over
the top for a little alliteration
but expressive of expanses
of fragrance in a different mode
Blake had at the centre
each flower opens to eternity
in tonic resolve despite chaotic
avian sky inscription soul reads
in blank January dome

Og and Anak
sneak into the poem through the Blake
door along with swarms of vultures
rise out of auguries into formations
roil with malice dedicated regimes
of pain and demonic release shaped
world in self’s paralytic image
WhataboutMe all dressed up
as monetized christian lollapalooza,
mostly because their names are cool
Og and Anak, which is how they got in
here trailing unknown clouds of Ugaritic
inscriptions, old Amorite theology,
and Nephilim’s Transjordanian
monolithic giants’ Cyclopian walls.

Augmented auguries continue
to overproduce alliterating thrills,
hope for sense to justify alphabetic
jouissance, more than just relief from
bowl-of-shit-news’s daily dish as Empire

once again crumbles around us as did
the Achaemenid, Ayutthaya, Akwamu,
and Angevin Empires and we’re not even
half way through the As, get used to it, waves
of resentment’s engorged rage and lust
for inflicted pain’s intimate contracted self
affirmation’s satanjoy, that and unrestrained greed
seem to be the order of the disintegrating
day, an Ahrimanic energy flare leaves
channels out deported and abandoned—
enter Og and Anak
to lock down further glimpses of sky’s
sky and strip G’s repeated delight
from orders of knowing.

No question, it gets downright nasty
out there, a world of pain and suffering
but claims
the world is broken
serve the same old inflated sty
in your eye loss of proportion leaves
Perfection (Human brand) to lurk unspoken
in unbroken’s necessary Whole
which just happens to hang out right
around the corner, it’s a kind of well-lit
whine, really, that they could have done it
better given newly inaugurated body
of knowledge’s collectibility
and same old blame it on evil matter (mother)
sleight of hand
What you see is what
you get, a lot of what you can’t see, too, all
of it, and the goat god could care less for your moral
loveandlight schtick and fantasies of salvation—
salvation? really? save what?
through a “body of knowledge”?
though the minute knowledge is assigned
its body, body-experts arrive, elbow
knowing, transitive, out of the way
and tell you what it means and which whatever
came first as if it was written down
a long time ago and all that remains
is to read it
                  and then
                                transmogrify
                               your apocryphon,
an obscure arcane ritual known
to juice up the gneo-gnostic purple prose solution
to some unfathomable metaphysical
problem, if that tickles your fancy, and leave
the broken world behind on your way
to unbroken world, the secret in plain sight
Og and Anak hide behind

Augmented auguries inaugural
silly alliterating jubilation
may not be enough to get you past fallen
if broken is your thing, but in the cosmic churn
of Duncan’s What Is nothing’s broken
because everything’s as it is becoming
and to stay tuned to all the horrors and joys,
pain and ecstasy, war and peace, ignorance
and knowing, broken and unbroken, cruelty
and kindness, rage and tenderness, all the
darkness in your own soul that you find
around you, to get beyond that Olde Book’s
compulsive divisions requires a leap
into further’s blossoming augmented
inaugurating fact