Yet, they call me “Pythia,”
And set me atop the three-legged stool.
The vapors come.
They trancify me.
And everything goes black.
I open my mouth,
And Apollo’s voice
Comes monotone from the bellows.
He instructs them to conform
And push civilization back,
And forth.
But when I wake to sleep,
The beauty lives as chaos—
Lively night-visions of non-conformity,
Pleasure in day-dream retrograde.
If only someday I couldn’t breathe,
And the vapors could pass with no effect,
Then we could dialogue in the mother tongue,
Words of bliss and acceptance in the vulgate.
-jenn long
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