The moon is full again,
whatever is staying lush, does...
The sun is seeing her through
eyelashes of glowing red onyx;
she realizes that the palm trees
have never ceased speaking
and envisioning themselves in her,
her in them...
She walks
and the ground wants it
to always be the first step,
As the word 'again' begins to
spread out its colors
through these experiences of her mind,
The Here that says 'here',
stays,
steadying her being herself,
no matter the commandments forgotten,
never read,
far fetched and solemn-erased
she is holy-continuance,
Detours through mist and flame
are what soul-yolk is made of...
All this,
though the spirit of soul-breath
means something else,
and cannot speak about itself,
with word,
with phrase,
with anything that resembles
less than that new sun's wink...
Is the rose as ready for lovers
as they are
for its unmistakable precision
in mirroring them,
their fragile pales
and their thorn-determinations?
Life lifts life,
an ancient settling-in happens
and we proceed out in front
of our emotions,
to clear some space
to tumble into the lungs of a god,
to make forgiving self-exceptions
so to try
and have exception with others...
A writer lies sometimes,
so that the truth can someday
erase all of his leaden pages
with one fire,
one orange cloak of forgiveness
and tender walking
with the sons and daughters
of a fantastic world
that is mysteriously changing
into commonplace,
through silver-hot puddles,
reflections that awe as they matte-
solidify into disks,
plates and coins...
An incredible world,
filled with such lucky flat objects,
that our shadows have to
lay down to stand up in them,
sometimes in reverse,
so to rest the eye from all this
fading,
in-depth-detail...
The regret isn't there for Beginnings,
it is immersion,
belonging to businesses
that do not belong to us
in the order of heart-priority,
here is where the Universe speaks,
saying, 'Here is a headache,
here is someplace you're trespassing
on by walking backwards into
leaving yourself for a dream
that doesn't wake to rustle you to
stand alive and well in your inner sun,
who shines to blossom itself relentlessly.'
At the author's home-to-be,
she's already sitting at the desk
before he does,
before pencils and pens
are understood as choices
to write what's right with,
before he's born
and far after
he's rattled this life's dance out,
singing it clean of the swamp-inheritances
that call themselves
by the names of thoughtfulness,
plentitude and offering,
though do not move out
of the protected perimeter
of the heart conversing,
and into where the music
isn't rhythm anymore,
where it becomes a new 'me', 'you',
or place where the self considers
this holy inhabitance as something more
than a sober-trance to play out
a willful romance
with pain and desertions,
turning to actual deeds
and apologies who've been waiting
longer than coalescing planets
to land their light into the human heart...
She's a muse of forgetfulness,
she's anonymous and too,
wears green celebrations,
entwining turtle songs and doveless arks
to skim safely over red coral reefs,
thick with prehistory and the living...
She's the engulfed gulf of unhatched eggs,
while he's the creator of her,
she's the recipient
of his untuned conscience,
of his itches that exist for the sake
of scratching what's on the outside
so to drown out the knocking-tingling
that's occurring at the doors within.
There are fingerprints
beneath the undersides of items
that normally the world would not
claim sides upon,
where what is lonely in a person
moves about like a deserted soldier,
his solid claim
to be that bird call
who reminded him
when as a child,
how right life could be
when what's wrong
would be shed away so quickly
by the open heart
of an eternally new lotus
in a very old Forever Pond
spread out over a sphere
of his looking at his new body,
radiant, sinless and called 'Earth.'
October 3, 2009
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