She’s a child of God
who can make decisions that last,
she’s a child of God
who can make decisions that last,

The wind does not answer the questions
that keep arriving,
the wind does not answer the questions
that keep arriving,

Beneath the stones,
beneath the stones,
inquiries coming from those
who’ve never touched the sky,
inquiries coming from those
who’ve never touched the sky,

He grants his boon
on the wisdoms of the owls,
he grants his boon
on the wisdoms of the owls,

Of the trees,
of the trees,
Of the rocks,
of the rocks,

The stepping up,
the stepping up,

To keep the charge lit,
to keep the charge lit,

Peacefulness comes to those
who cannot wait
for the kind of love
that’s trying to figure things out,
the kind of love
that’s trying to figure things out,

The sorting has begun,
the sorting has begun,
the sorting has begun,

And Anubis is undoing this weather vane,
this weather vane,
this weather vane,

The storm of all storms,
will arise inside the onlooker,
will arise inside the onlooker,
when her eyes turn to that splendor she’s tasting,
when her eyes turn to that splendor she’s tasting,
when her eyes turn to that splendor she’s tasting,

She’ll reflect all else that’s watching,
all else that’s watching,
all else that’s watching,
the desert turn to green,
turn to green,
turn to green,
turn to green,
turn to green…

When God walks,
the thirsty buffalo drink from crystalline ponds,
when God walks,
the hummingbird dives synchronously
with all rainbows,
all spilt pots of gold,
all oysters hiccupping pearls,
all effulgence,
all chirping Welcomes
who do not look to closed doors
to lay their self-same monogrammed mats at…

Then the chains rattle
and the dogs who never hold collars
begin to howl
and the soap quivers in its dish,
water stops dripping
and Annoyance disappears
like a pirate’s peg-legged-footstep
at the nearing of low tide’s ending,

A black seal-spirit swims
in a man’s aching stomach,
a baby eagle repacks itself in
the hatched egg shells
and is born again as an emerald crocodile
so that the blessed lovers
may have something to look at
as their drunkenness gets near Out-of-hand
while in deep waters,

And lotuses climb
alongside pink roses skyward,
and the ideas of a championship race
bring them both to crying tears
of hysterical humor at themselves intertwining
and at God’s intertwining roots
of bearded grace,

While a little girl says grace,
the table excuses itself
so to kneel to the moon,
to show the galaxies what trees do
when they lay their bodies down,
they hold other bodies up to the bounty,
to the cornucopia of The Mystery,
the majesty of how Life lives without asking
itself permission to do so,

It gives without prerequisite
of wanting hands
or specific hunger;
there are fruits that ripen on the vine
and fall to meet no movement,
who sit and sit and sit,
possessing an omnipresence
gathered from cyclopean spirits
who adore such fearless ones as fruits,
packages containing the beginnings
of themselves,

Blessed laundry that bears
brand new ultramarine tuxedos
from wilting brown rags,
from the tattered nakednesses revealed
as the lone lover crawls,
hearkening the oncoming sun
to bring the desert closer to its mouth,
the stinging salt,
closer to its heart’s unconquerable
fresh water spout…

All of this is for ‘that’ amount of time.

The partially hidden horses
standing amongst the pines,
the partially hidden music
standing amongst what has not yet
gathered itself as a chorus,
the full disappointment that’s brought
back inside the heart and churned into
the sweetest butter,
the sweetest butter that’s stored amongst
smiling potatoes, wheat and yeast,
all knowing too well
what this lover brings…

‘At best’ and the arrival of fruit
once the blossoms
have yawned themselves off
the ever-awake trees.

The dawn
who does not laugh at this world,
the ache in the heart who recalls
the animated nautilus shell moving on
its ocean floor and whomever stretches
an arm to Welcome,
to say, ‘take this hand,’
pronouncing the greeting
without a ‘must’ or a ‘whatever,’
giving Love’s permission
to the wishful-thinkers,
the wanton fulfillments who cannot
reach deep enough into the mirror yet
to taste the silver painting
being done each time
Insatiable’s lips are licked,

And looking away
while saying, ‘I love you’
does begin to seem like something else
to that other direction cherished
for its unknowns instead.

The artist who gives outwards
those prayer-colors from a cosmos
who has never been blind
to the yearning surfaces,
all who were once pure and white,

While galaxies clasp themselves in
brightest surrender,
brightest gratefulness,
brightest giving
to that which is given back,

Forwards into a space
that has no back,
no sides, no front,
no ‘this’ or ‘that,’

Standing breathing undone and done,
one,
three,
a quadrillion inhales to make one
millimeter’s existence
to a child’s shoestring seem untied,
while the child is happy that way,
prior to learning
its ‘how and why’ to tie…

What had said ‘new’ to him suddenly did not age,
seeing with worry,
seeing with aging believed,
seeing with complaint in place of banquet tables,
seeing from the capped end of an empty bottle of
favorite ‘I am tired of life’-exhales,

All these looks are what bring
Seeing-eye-dogs to grieve,

There is a force in the heart
that welcomes the challenge to share,
there is a force in the heart
that welcomes the house of no doors,
there is a force in the heart that welcomes
what bothers the mind to be cleared by
unconditional love,
love that cannot be frozen
or turn into too-hot-soup,

And this love is enraptured to discern,
to discern love out from the expectation
in getting love in return for trying
to paint watercolor-loving on a moving river.

There are demons,
who laugh at salvation coming,
there are demons,
who wiggle beneath the sun of
sons of god’s grace,
there are demons who moan
Time passing from their lips
and draw in the sand
sandcastles collapsing,

Their hearts are as heavy as any prison-suited,
they are covered in a celestial soot
that redemption-purity scrubs clean,
there are demons who cannot wonder how they were
created no more than a chirping bird can answer how
it is it must fly to get to its appetite’s satiation,

We reach into the night
and do not see the Knight,
We reach into the cookie jar
because we’ve forgotten
to be the never-trespassing-cookie of ourselves,

Some drunkard mistook the Ten Commandments
for being made of stone,
having seen them from a safe-critic’s harbor’s distance,
because those tablets were baked in the carrier’s breast,
they were made of bread
that he later ate,
washing it down with God’s sanctified,
heart murmuring liquid gold blood.

There are lists that are written that simply say
I love you, over and over again,
there are lists that mermaids weep upon,
while angels scribe songs from these tears,
there are lists that elves try to hide,
but they simply grow into goliath sequoias
for their labor to carve acceptance-houses
into their branches,

There are lists that gods and goddesses stare
at in awe,
it is God’s grocery wish
coming down the celestial crystalline pathway,
tucked under a wooly St. Bernard’s chin,
its rainbow wings never landing and
never fully taking off,
looking you in the eye,
telling you that avalanches are never preferred
hobbies to study beneath to those wondrous lists
that your love can churn out
when you’re the accepting prairie
for your brothers and sisters,
when you’re the sun and the milk,
when you are the freewill-action that meets
forming universes asking for more
and give it graciously,
quivering with exhaustion to go another
and another,
till God lays you down,
lays you down under that Tree of Life
where your specific heartbeat was chosen,
chosen only by him,
to radiate and give,
to give and give and give…

Inside that timidity,
that gone away fierceness,
your eyes did not dim,
instead, I watched them
being something else,

Like diamonds sinking beneath
luminous God-soil,
blinking closed and open,
looking upwards
beyond the lids of Time,
beyond the proofs of this life,
beyond the face they figured out
on Day one contained no days,

I saw how you handed Life
your hand
a hundred ten thousand times
without the command it give anything
to its deep canyoned,
Palm Reader’s surprise-surface,
that open fist-map who whispered,

‘I have stories hidden in between the
front and back of this easily folded up map,
this shaking ball of five,
this rain dance gathering cup-partner.’

You,
older than the weeping willows
shading your home,
older than the tree lizards scurrying to
meet inside your reposed shadow napping
on a Wednesday afternoon,
older than Love who is younger than Eternity,
older than Tolerance,
older than the invention of Human,

Seeing you,
stepping into an ethereal blanket
of singing song,
seeing you,
crying rainbows and dissolving
pots of gold in your insatiable laughter
for God’s smile,

Seeing you,
reflecting the me
who is to come
into your timepiece soon enough,

Seeing you,
pouring lamp oil on the clocks
so to light them aflame,
to better read the fading sounds
and pointed directions of Time…

The sound of dry grass
beneath tender feet
that have not cumulatively
walked a mile
in their setting down from Womb,

The love that issues outwards
after a mistake has lost its scorn
and found its way back to the pool
of the central heart,

The ache in the throat
that quivers with lonesomeness,
that dances in the abandoned pelican nest
and mingles with storm clouds
as they get lighter and lighter
when the downpour gradually
un-postpones into the dry mouth
of Yearning,

Then he remembers it,
the color of gravel as it was seen
for the first time,
the taste of ‘that,’
being the inside of a snow ball
gathered from a bed of spearmint…

Forget-me-nots are flowers,
not requests of the Real,

These days bow upwards,
these streams sing some song
belonging to cradle
that’s still a tree…

The voiced glowing,
a talked about wing,
the hummingbird who soared
towards a Hawaiian shirt
drying on a clothesline
that could perfectly kiss train tracks
if it wanted to,

These roots in his hands,
a mule standing against an orange
backdrop of foregrounds calling to
one another to begin
and a painter leaving all his work,
walking home,
watching from afar
as an oncoming storm finishes
the portrait of its own clouds,

A penniless woman made of
platinum, gold and emeralds,
she’s not speaking in tongues,
ask her to slow the hymnal down
and discover that its all birdsong-strings
of winning lottery numbers,

In her hands is the same plant
as his roots belonged to
though these are its leaves
bunched inside prayer hands
turned to grasping,
and some are in her petticoat,
while the saddles of her heart
are stuffed with rainbow seeds,
waterfall tubers
and tropical-paradise bulbs,
not to mention the galaxy spores,

A restless wind chime
who has not stirred
inside itself enough
wears out its string and falls,
making the sound it has yearned to
achieve all the years it hovered
in the tree,
thinking,
dreaming of the perfect breeze…

Sometimes moving about in the same place can, from a distance, resemble a type of pause. To arrive at trusting God, the All-might and the holding in the lap of quilts made of those cocoons shed, covers on covers on covers, not for the sake of concealing and unwrapping in expectation, simply, to endure the energies of expectation and planning, to land inside an axis breathing with rich sustenance, eggs that have no cataloging inside them, existences who have never heard of life and death.

I could feel the floor boards bending as they passed behind me, though the usual cracks and squeaks could not be heard. I got up and walked away, far into the night, the next morning, the next era…

Every fan in town had been left on, doors open, windows too, faucets running to their last drip drops and windmills too still to be real…

Tombstones in the town yard were collected together to resemble a loaf of bread and a giant porcelain basin of butter lay crystalline clear in the evening sun; no birds, though the crickets were amazingly classical…

Love had definitely been here, everything had changed and not a blade of grass was out of place.

I heard someone crying and looked everywhere, not a soul to be found; I took off my clothes, then my skin, then my muscles, then my bones, quietness and murmurs of destinations stepping into themselves, needing no tourists to say their names out loud, gathering all the curiosities that lay between the familiar and the unknown and lighting a candle, a sun, whispering while dozing awake upon an eyelash of God’s, floating in galactic depths, no reigns, no compass, no reward doubted and no suffering too bitter or too sweet…

That embrace mentioned,
the deep purple smile of a May iris,
you,
joy,
unwinding streetlight flicker,
silence and then the sound
of a dog dragging its chain
at high gallop.

It’s finally free,
Final’s freedom from whimpering,
begging God’s first beginning
to pause eternal.

That chain’s once chromed links,
now sullen and sandblasted
by concrete meditation,

Put through the hands
of a four legged dancer…

Night-sparks to mark
where they rattled and blunt-bumped
when meeting with spirits crisscrossing,
getting used to the sound of nothing
when the solid world leans to fall,
finally chews through to sever
the thick tree holding its heart’s all.

Pools of forgiveness,
continuance and forests of decisions
that turn the cosmos around,

The skipping of a stone across glistening
lakes of new lava flow,
rice beds and bowls of water balanced
on their heads,

Whispers of tridents and mermaids,
pleasure, leisure and sureness,
freedoms and clouds,
this food the heart eats,
this path of fire fish swimming,
the deepest gotten
and the shallowest prayer forgotten
to be that one of the most solid gold,

See through touching,
songs of eggs hatching and blossoms
summoning sunlight to scatter evenly
into its limbs, its nests, its fruits and
its roots resting dreams of Right Here,

Lovers and that which floats away,
the temple colors
and the surrendering bow,
the arrow from the heart
to the darkness pulsing target voids
open chorus singing,

The tea is finished,
the day is bedded down,
the road is unsurfaced and growing thick
with apocalyptic love weeds,

Sweet daylight beginning again,
a key to Nowhere
and a lock of his hair…

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