The Mushroom Messiah

about this shit show, slo-mo, unstoppable apocalypse...we know
on the edge of the wedge that’s the ledge of all dying—
—We need a new story.
Hey—it’s too grim under that brim, too sad to drag it all forward, married to carrying the trunk of this sorrow on our heads, like Isis carried the throne of Egypt for three thousand years, like Inanna swung gashed on that hook and waiting, like Cassandra, stumbling bloody with Truth that no one wanted.

Here's another tale of Now spoke in a new voice—
Once upon a world, humans seeded chaos and destruction for a purpose—setting the stage for the coming of The Mushroom Messiah. We’ve always been just zombied ants compelled by the likes of cordyceps, feeding a challenge that births future worlds.

Peeking from the sidelines, they watch and they wait—mycelium, life’s caregivers—invisible sanghas of fungal colonies—their fruiting bodies seeding generosity, hyphae filamentals like electrical language trains. Their dark magic problem-solving the way forward—threadlike masses moving so slowly, boundlessly on. Howling like wolves into substrates below our thoughts. 

Beneath all our edges, mushrooms root in partnership, their ancient sacred habitation of The Underground. This earth is theirs—‘cos they been here the longest—indigenous deeper than anyone. Both conductor and the orchestra. Through every mass extinction they played horns in that subterranean band— drummed while ice covered the earth, their cymbals a prelude to the dinosaurs’ crash. Silvered flutes blew sweet volcanoes, cities bowing to ash; Life boogeyed on as they rubbed violin strings across the land between Chernobyl and Fukushima, held holy space on the cosmic dance floor to lighten despair. Who needs air?

Down there under earth’s carpet, they eat, make plans, have wild mushroom sex that scientists don’t understand. Hey, fuck science! All hail the Fungi— scarfing at the archeological edges. Forming fabulous alliances, feeding forests forever, slow-chanting as Tuvan throat singers their sacred words or what passes for words sliding from the space that passes for mouths. And all dualities will feed Them.

Recalling in their vast lineage the Faces of God, they took notes on the Big Bang, are lit inside their deep darkness with memory and remedies for shit we haven’t even imagined yet.

Imagine now: Patient, they wait in their velvet dark, humming holy vibrations through oxygen deprivation, monstrous mutations & toxifications, through another climactic cataclysm— our schisms are nothing but lunch to them. All catastrophes their kaleidoscopic juice bar.

Who knows where they came from or where they’re going? Just call them Mother and trust that this is way deeper than we are. Fasten your seatbelts, dear babies for a brighter cycle, the saga of all our dramas metabolizing. Life waits for our final act—by and by and by our own hand, bye bye.
and we bow out as Earth’s standing ovation echos through The Underground, sprinkling millennia of poetry & industrialization, rock n’ roll & fighter jets, oil drilling & skyscraping—

Once upon a time there was a vast, silent and invisible Being, and no religions are made in its image. Their temple a tracing of tiny beads threaded through galaxies and stars without end.

Once upon the Time, Life goes on—stubborn and silken alchemy tossing out flowers and babies from garbage and greed. No karma, no hell. Only this smooth tube of digestion sliding out the next amazing thing. All our consequences, food for The oldest Mother.

Wonderful and Terrible. Assimilation and Annihilation. The Mushroom Messiah… some wait with open hearts to be taken down.

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