Love? Yes

January 28, 2010

Love? Yes, all around,
through you and white antelope grazing
on moist gold blades of grass.

A rainbow boy sitting in a circle,
a collection of window panes
in the shape of a spiral move out
and away from his central position
as ‘the son.’

Purple dyed trees
start to reveal their true colors
as a rain begins and large moose commence
their afternoon trail walk,
nibbling berries,
bringing pure air to exhaled, exalted steam
and carrying antlers spun with fairy silks,
whereon full hammocks swing,
holding fairy dust satchels
and their children sleeping deeply,
as high noon becomes their full moon.

The rainbow boy repeats,
‘I am not anyone’s baby doll.’
And repeats this till Eternity says,
‘Cease, this is enough for all of Now.’
The rainbow boy says, ‘I am not just anyone,
nor is anyone just who they are to me.’
And repeats this till a galaxy disembarks
from its original position in Space
to be the rainbow boy’s cloak for the
evening, saying, ‘Galaxies shed leaves too.’

Wolves howl up close and personal;
still, the window panes hold their
perimeter-glowing-knowing-hold,
protecting, rooting, reflecting, eyeing,
emanating prayers of stars responding
by looking down at the spiral-landed
one rainbow boy.

Love? Yes, it rewards
as Death of illusion passes through
the sound of a doorknob being
hot molten cast,
turned in a lathe
and dropped in a rose water bath.

Yes, it steps,
ever so lightly,
carrying the world’s worth of abandoned
underwater battleship cannons as
glistening bracelet charms.

Yes, it outfits the naked in gowns
of crystal lace, peacock feathers,
luminous mosses,
and woven,
donated praying mantis wings…

The rainbow boy closes his eyes,
and sees the gnats gathering
near the roadside,
sees the fresh apple pies
on the window seals,
the same windows
that are now laying flat nearby,
still fogged up by having been
those witnesses to the fresh apple pies.

And sees dogs limping,
dragging glowing white hearts,
dragging solid silver mailboxes
bejeweled with diamonds,
emeralds and alabaster,
and sees cats yawning
and orange pillows on fire
floating towards the sun
from where their pollen selves came from,
and sees opalescent dragons flapping
far out in outer Space,
carrying eggs reaching out to him,
holding in their hands
magical gardening tools,
books that he will not be able to read
until they singe his human eyesight clean
of the coughing,
the clinic-humilities
that enslave desire to object,
object to want
and self to reflections of others long
gone backwards and ahead.

The windows begin to crack,
there’s a rainbow girl walking on them,
she’s holding in her arms a dying fawn,
its spots hovering above it
like newborn nebulae;
its legs are spread out…

At a distance and from behind,
it looks like she’s carrying bagpipes,
as Easter Island evaporates into a galaxy
of tiny copper spheres
when their heads wondered to see her facial
expression and that of the fawn’s
as a composite of one.

A golden box of flutes is dug up
by three squirrels
and are handed out to large bullfrogs…

As the music begins,
the glass shards from those cracked window
panes form into a cross-stitch quilt,
clinking softly behind her
to the rhythm of the bull frog’s requiems
for those in between spaces coming
though not born yet.

The wooden frames now paneless,
are being gathered together by Pan,
and sent to be burning in a field
far to the South, far,
by a flock of coal carved ibis…

The moose are listening
to the rainbow boy’s breathing,
their anticipation is galactic
as the titanium blood beneath
their hides stops for a moment,
this creates goosebumps on a
metropolis-worth’s of fair skins
a thousand miles away;
the rain is washing into and not away.

A red band of fairy arrive;
these are the Benevolent Fairies
and they chide him as he quakes a little,
bringing blossom to hanging air-plants
far above in a jungle canopy
amongst his dreams of return,
he is there always.

The Benevolent Fairies call
all the medicinal plants of the wood
to tap into his veins,
to weave and unweave,
to be and unbelieve,
to begin and tear up,
to drink and spit out,
to lift and fuse together,
to birth and take back births
who are being too stubborn to live…

The rainbow girl is kneeling down
directly in front of him
and they are both touching foreheads
and kissing the fawn on its face,
the fawn open its eyes,
its skeleton shakes,
the full moon faints deeper
and the purple from the trees,
its last drops
stand still inside golden buckets
set in place by the Cherub of Sand Dunes
to tell the time once the sun rises
and cloth outfits are finished being spun
by the Benevolent Fairies
for the rainbow children to wear
as the herald of a coming New Earth rises
in the golden amber diamond embedded
god throned blood of they who endure
the embers, the white feathers gone,
the angelic promises gone,
the star bright left as yes-alone,
the driven parked,
the abandoned there and going to seed
after having surrendered to blossoming
for three thousand years;
steaming basins of molten rubies,
stirred and glistening
with marshmallows and caramel topping,
lungs of liquid ostrich feathers,
bodies of an alloy Titanium just employed
as itself hidden as joy revealed.

The fawn stands steady on their shoulders
as they bow to one another,
resting on both their knees.

Robes of galaxy and window panes intertwine,
hearts of God’s favorite drink beat,
palms of smooth, fortuneless print embrace,
bellybuttons smooth, not there,
do not catch the rain…

Love? Yes, in between,
at that place where mind meets body,
it stirs the hot ruby-chocolate,
drinks it,
listens,
makes the most of all,
as All must suffice for it,
as the rainbow boy touches above him,
feeling a thin ice membrane,
presses on it,
all suddenly melts away,
and he becomes again,
again, again, again…