May What You’ve Gone Through Be A Prayer Of the Holiest Kind

February 19 & 23, 2010

May what you’ve gone through
be a prayer of the holiest kind…

The conjured youth of entering
this earthly place called ‘place’
is an astounding, living pause.

That there is even ‘youth,’ ‘middle’
and ‘old’ or Spring/Summer,
Autumn/Winter of a body said to be
made of the very earth where such
weathers are occurring, this is Awe
living the emotion of itself…

Yet no matter the protests,
the cargo,
the Love Freight Train
fueled by uncut diamonds
or the shadows
with blankets covering them,
stardust remains in the eyes,
whose galactic-void-pupils
do not change
as the body is danced
by Time and the Eternal Egg.

*

All that is gravity-received
by mortal breath breathing
the Mortal five senses perceived-as-This,
those All-tangibles,
all Nearly-forever-sensed
I-haves and I-hads,
these unanimously eventually lay open
to those elementals
who married Conjure so long ago,
prior to tectonic plates,
prior to any movement conceived as
‘having’ or ‘going to have.’

All that is gravity-received,
those form-filled holy tokens
of having lived in the hands of the
workmen, the stewardesses, the holy
magicians and the dragon slayers;
all dissolve and solve, as bubbles
surrounding the liquid at the top of
a glass give pause, give more than the
hot coco lover can see,
just like those implied breaths
held inside the pliable
see-through-spheres
and the kisses its companion Silica
is preparing.

*

Then there is that part within
who says, ‘holy,’ ‘magnificent,’
‘I am,’ and ‘we are one.’
That part speaking for a One-sensation
that is beyond the travel it has taken
to get into the beginning of having
first heard with ears, that counting away
from civilization’s predestined curve’s
meeting back up with its sum’s circular
love letter to itself as an empty envelope
filled with possibility and the freedom to
mail such immortal pause-of-reaching
anywhere Where and Here is not;
lifting back the V for victory-seal
to find Reaching reaching back
to the seeker sought by the Void’s
beyond-promises-embrace.

*

There’s ‘the voice of God,’
heard parallel to that voice who
called it ‘god’s.’

As meaning drips off
one eyelash,
a tear
reflecting the eye watching it
about to fall
into a palm
rising to massage it back in…

Into the face that will not
stop glowing with the breath of
swans, flowers, limestone and suns.

*

The creator of water does not rise
through its own invention to pose
to an atmosphere ‘removed,’
there is no ‘Above’ and ‘Below,’
‘Past’ or ‘Future,’
as all lifetimes lived
are being lived simultaneously
in this One and only moment;
the creator of water
reclines within what it holds.

It is the dreamer who dreams
these self-reflections as ‘out-there,’
and Out-there who is waking to
the reflection of itself in
6,692,030,277 hammocks.

While to this planet’s holy rite
of passing across itself a touch
upon a smooth dimensional-image
floating in touchless Space,
is given blessed blessings
to the silent non-blessed items,
who are SO,
that Blessing itself prays to these
luminous givers of sustenance and all.

*

Risen passage and away,
this body called ‘Am Was.’

She, dropleting soother of wilted flowers,
she, walking Everest landslide hoverer,
she, polar sunshine,
she, languid jungle colors at dusk,
she, dancer of union and waving the
candle to sleep with breeze.

Sequence of mouths speaking
of remembering something unlived,
though proximity has its oasis
multi-mirrored as ‘Must be’ and ‘Is.’

Pleasure wrinkled inward,
smiles as broad as they reached when
pink rose hued youth did such.

The ease of breathing slips underneath
an oncoming sand storm and cuddles it
back inside the grain of sand from which
it dreamed itself out from.