It’s a Survival thing.
Steve Szewczok © 2013
All Rights Reserved
when we shared our food with the wind our mouths were full and our bellies spoke from a place of survival we did what we needed to do we lived together stuck like glue because that is what we knew that was what kept us true to our clan. when we walked out of Africa and into the new found lands we brought with us a will and a desire to procreate to hunt a need to feed ourselves
It’s a survival thing.....
Out of this need festered a greed to rise like the sun that big ball of light in the sky is what had caught our eye and how do we get there how do we become that light. Kabbala talks of Abraham buried in a cave up to his neck in sand. For a hundred years or more he prayed from the dark to the light and when he emerged from the cave he was blinded by the sight of the light and he became the sun he became its offering
in the dried out deserts the hard cracked earth screams with such agony from it’s thirst. When will the rains come? not before the fires had begun. What is this place this anguish that covers this space a kind of hell is born from the heat of this well... we are the people who rise out of the desert fires we are the ones who bring death itself to the conspiring king
when the rain finally came and mixed with the dried skin of the cracked earth there was a rebirth of the land turning this sand garden into clay cities and out from this dirt came the seed of bread break it and you are one with the carpenters son taste it and know that the wars have begun there is no longer a need to wait for the spring’s awakening the movement has begun and soon all the Gods will become one.
in the great cathedrals of the dark ages before Elliot put down the pages there was a man who became martyr who offered his body to a king He was no Messiah no Christ just a man who believed in the fight for a church for an idea for a loaf of bread and a cup of blood wine he was left for dead and on those same steps where he bled out came the shout of a nation and the whole world would sing...of his creation.
With the mother of invention came a new birth of intention the printing of Gothenburg's first book took a look at the great pages of a dead language and here our dear chef mixes the flour of the sour intellect the spy game is afoot and good kitchens bake their bread with golden eggs instead of lead and now you must all stand and put this body in your hand and dream the dream that a promised land can bring to it’s dead.
Now as the tides of discovery slip back and push forward the eyes of progress look to the new world and see their heaven in the riches of many different fishes and other dishes that will satisfy the eager and brutal wishes of an Empire of a Dominion of dominance. In the belly of our Church we spread the word with our bread and those that are fed are conquered That was the peace in our sting!
when the machines of industry greased the palms of our God a new deal for a stronger steel came forth Factory was the word heard around the world and power made the seed of greed grow beyond what even wealth might know and now we knead a new kind of dough baking those dead inside the bread so the word communion can bring us to a union of together as we storm though this terrible weather tethered to our faith we are as we have always been the keepers of this gate.
In the evening mass where St Paul took his last breath the bread is given freely to the ones who stood the test to the bakers and the chefs to the believers and the perceivers whatever body you hold in your hand whatever line you crossed in the sand makes no difference to the blood in your glass we are all of us of the Human class and the food we eat is body and flesh that which is baked as bread has given us life has brought us to the dead and this is the truth that i bring...
It’s a survival thing.....