Edgar Cayce Dies in Limbo

Go easy on each other.

Call me please, call me
sure, call me Nostradamus, seer
of conjecture, poet of tin foil-hat lovers.
Call me ugly prince, call me
total annihilation, I am here alive, alone and wet.

I’m Edgar Cayce in a marriage of convenience,
I lie in a bed of nails to avoid my love of
my fear, my hate and focus on the future
to tap the primordial, the Universe,
the sanctity of a marriage gone wrong.

This is my own self-induced trance,
this is how people start, they work to avoid-
My Victorian is an eyesore, yard with weeds, bramble
you ramble you break the rake to set the tempo of
the bags under my eyes with leaves itchy grass-stare.

Bleary weeks of unopened mail, dishes pile and garbage
stacks and clacks like a tambourine counting time,
counting the beat and drumming my fingers-
Everybody waits…

no better than chance, these guesses
no better than chance, for all the wrong reasons

Go easy on each other, go easy on yourself,
from Texas to Virginia Beach the setting doesn’t change
The victims lack the personhood and your letters
mean the same. Call me please,

Call me chance, call me Nostradamus, a seer
a user, the self-appointed gothic king of dreams.
Jesus was no different, his Christ was not his own,
He didn’t start the movement, just lived to sell the show.

I’m Edgar Cayce with a limp, my powers tell the tale
collective consciousness is our warp and creed,
I believe in nothing.

Go easy on me Edgar

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