On The Precipice

February 16-19, 2010

On the precipice,
taking a shower in one heartbeat,
red hot pine cones whirl by,
and silver feather-darts;
green apples appear to catch them.

No gravity here above this edge.

There is the sound that a waterfall
makes as its last overflow drip drops,
a revelation of that body it was draping,
a revelation of that song page it keep wet
in the face of Ra singing into it.

The routine water turtle below, its shell
is beginning to turn a matte hue, drying…

*

I hear a little boy pulling a wagon
across a morning lawn filled with
unbreakable snails telescopically looking
outwards into it…

I see him divide into two; by an eye blink
there’s an army of these wanderers,
searching for this breath,
the source place of this steam rising.

There is a white bear in front of me
sitting in meditation; it blasts the
atmosphere with a roar not akin to bears,
shuts its mouth quickly
and turns into a flock of yellow canaries
who form a lidless silo where
ravens and magpies drop Indian corn
and once-expensive-trinkets into.

At the base of this feathered cauldron,
shoveling into its furnace black sphalerite
and purple erythrite is an old woman
who never ages, her body is covered
in gold dragon scales and eternal thawing
emerald icicles.

When she sleeps at dawn,
each scale buzzes,
each scale lifts slightly away,
then settles again upon her,
each collecting dew for her nourishment;
each scale is a special kind of June bug.

*

This transparent breathing vest called ‘Am.’

Each skin cell is a probable Mt. Vesuvius.
Each hair strand a probable world-railroad.
Each cough a probable candle outage.

This body is resting on a quartz crystal bed;
seven feet long, four wide and three deep.
Suspended within this bed are the seeds
from all the flowers of the world.

The surface of the bed is pliable,
this body sinks slightly into it
as it conforms, nestles
and calms to balance.

Commencing fire-breathing,
a sun from within shines out,
the seeds sprout,
and their tendrils saturate the body above,
weaving, sowing, crocheting, knitting…

Inside the blossom-bulbs vibrate,
an ocean is on its way,
they ring for it with tambourines
who hold the birthplaces for music
that has no instruments.

The blossoms begin to open;
on all the petals is written ‘I love you,’
on each pollen granule
is written ‘I am that I am,’
on the multitudes of colors
is written ‘Was is not,’
and on fragrances abounding
is written ‘Erase Start and Finish.’

*

From the tendrils insertions
through the body,
upon the quartz crystal bed
honey begins to slowly flow,
collecting in the form-fitting-crevices,
slightly pooling and nearly overflowing.

Honey bees arrive
and without a sound,
they all land,
beginning an Autumn harvest
prior to noon.

A prayer hand appears in the sky;
from it pours rainbow spheres…
They fall to earth, roll about,
clinking like huge marbles.
A few shards fall off
and stand up,
forming children
of Gods and Goddesses.

Their lips are moving,
though not a sound can be discerned;
the air changes,
these vested lungs disappear,
this god-exhale-esophagus becomes
a hieroglyphic tomb entrance,
the liver a beautiful gift-bedding
for an elderly transcending,
blood-veined-jade-flesh rhinoceros,
and the stomach is a treasure chest
filled with the breath of seagoing fairies
and glittered spirits who live in such.

*

The body is now filled
with pressing petals,
the body is disintegrating
to make for more room,
the mind is filled with striving
to break the key off,
while the key stays glowing white hot
and sparkling-connected to
That Heart Who Knows.

There is a hallway
between Life and Death,
where sound and silence
leave no footprints, no puzzles,
where lava neither rushes or solidifies,
where red coral is nothing
without God’s colorless blessings,
where gorgeous healing and dim lit death
both sense wrinkled time and tea tree oil as
exactly the same blessing poured onto one
another.

There is a vision of success that is blind,
there is a vision of blindness that cannot see,
there is a vision of having visions that cannot
open its eyes unto itself,
there are echoes from other people’s walls
being built that rebuild old fallen barriers
for those who are listening too closely
to the story’s imagined beginnings,
the story’s imagined endings,
‘erase Start and Finish.’

There are hands that pass through the word
‘hand,’ holding it as no hand has held before,
there are lovers who pass through the awe of
loving, loving it as no awe can surmount with
majestic-bewilderment-Eden.

*

The body atop the quartz crystal bed
is on fire, flames made of snowflakes,
smoke made of dandelions and cattails
shaking their heads to a breezeless night…

The wandering child-legion
of wagon-pullers are drawing on the sky
with the charcoal left over,
as Left Over arrives again and again
in the ultramarine conjured pictures
of a new God-creation.

Thick orange water splashes on the shore,
galaxies in the shapes of whales
erupt their blowholes nearby,
sending multitudes of suns and chrysalis
seedlings outwards.

*

A Sand Golem sits,
it is nighttime,
it is holding its face
into a small,
concentrated blazing fire,
bringing its granular absorption-surface
to a slicker shiny,
glassy one,
so that it can feel
as the rain dowses the transience,
the eternal water running off.