Cibola 2 (old)

I’m serializing my book-length poem. See yesterday’s post for details.


This thing called a fetish embodies
what can never be touched.
Its odd contours–all lump & twist
& rag-end–are best kept out of view.
To see it exposed, one must assume
the burden of its origins, one must
remake oneself. It lives
in a buried season, carboniferous.
It is the solid shadow
we abandoned in the womb.

To be continued.

Beginnings. In lieu of a prose introduction. The longest single section of the poem.

This thing called a fetish. No Freudianism, please! In anthropological circles, the term “fetish” has acquired a distinctly un-p.c. aura; terms like “icon,” or the more general “power object,” are generally preferred. What I had in mind was something halfway between a Malian cult object and the personal mi’le of a Zuni priest or medicine society member. In either case, a distinctly aniconic ideal holds sway.

For additional commentary, here and throughout, I think I’ll use the comments (appropriately enough).

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Dave Bonta (bio) crowd-sources his problems by following his gut, which he shares with 100 trillion of his closest microbial friends — a close-knit, symbiotic community comprising several thousand species of bacteria, fungi, and protozoa. In a similarly collaborative fashion, all of Dave’s writing is available for reuse and creative remix under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 United States License. For attribution in printed material, his name (Dave Bonta) will suffice, but for web use, please link back to the original. Contact him for permission to waive the “share alike” provision (e.g. for use in a conventionally copyrighted work).

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