On the Face of It

Huwawa’s uncloaked viscera,
Wrinkled visage sausage maker,
Well, what else is new? No more masks,

That would be new. Were languages
Around before the traditions
Of disfiguring your faces?

A sudden resonance of guilt
At not feeling guilty enough,
Or is that feeling only angst,

Anxiety at being found
Not guilty? Why would you pretend
Guilt you couldn’t feel? To be good,

First mask of all, father of all
Body paint, shells, and mud hairdos,
Mother of all ecstatic trance,

Ancestor of all guardian
Monsters among the resources,
Placated by extispicy.

Doesn’t answer which one was first,
Mask or name, but still it’s telling
That you tend to think that secrets

Hide out in the guts of the world,
And your monster that protects truth
Looks like the secret truth revealed.