Seance Heartbeats

February 24 & 25, 2010

Séance-heartbeats.

The glow of a fluffed up
field of cattails
as a sunset says ‘hello’
to the other half near its
second morning.

Séance heartbeats,

This is where
between heart-table
and mind-table,
love-hands holding a circle
and thought-hands holding a circle,
the blood carries the diaries of
hundreds of strangers
and kin-memory too
within the soul-experiencing-
body looking like only ‘One.’

These are the kind of journals
whose bronze locked hasps
and gold plated lost keys
will not outlast their spirit ink’s
yearnings.

*

The séance heartbeat-echoes are lent
as ‘the real feeling’ when we touch
to reach away from ourselves,
breathless, holding breath
and breathing for another,

The séance heartbeat-echoes are lent
as ‘the real voice’ when we speak
to listen to ourselves agreeing to what
feels right in the mind of tomorrow or hope,
so to smile at plans for feeling,
so to smile at plans for getting there,
so to smile at plans for being what cannot
be planned in world of God constantly
winking at Fate.

These kinds of smiles belong to another
world, they inhabit us and do not falter in
their commissions to pay nothing to the
Heart of Now.

I cannot go on about this origin story,
there’s a smile forming four light years
away that’s sending a message
that ‘it’ knows,
yet, there is only Nothing,
and Nothing allows all to exist
so to exit,
so to bless,
so to rise in love and accept
God’s immortal diversity
of cell division.

*

Unsung forgiveness has its territories
of residence in the flesh and spirit too.
What weeps also gathers and pours
new water for tear duct reservoirs,

What the mind finds amendable
for the future cannot really be held
and what the heart feels in the now
is often those very empty hands.

The mind listens as hope-joy forms
from the permission of another’s
hope-joy blooming,
yet these blooms do not face
any kind of sun or color wheel,
nor are they rooted
in soul photosynthesis.

There’s something about the
Valley of Echoes,
there’s a group there who worship
an effigy, a dusty curved mirror that
was once straight and crystal clear,
having hung within the Heart of hearts,
drumming to Om
between Hunger and Ok,

There is a Glass smith beyond this
valley’s ring of razor mountains,
who is in love with straightening such
carnival sustenance…

*

The séance heartbeat-echoes are lent
‘as the real sightseer’ when we fixedly
look to ourselves getting what
cannot be kept, holding onto while being
kept by that which is also clutching being
clutched,

The séance heartbeat-echoes are lent
‘as the real music’ when we hear what
we are tasting as something better than
the soul-stomach’s grumbling starvation
for the Beloved.

As the mind trowels out more walls,
the Soul presence and Heart of hearts
dance within the shiny reflections
on the topsides of the masons’ tools
that never touch such work.

*

Huge white feathers bend themselves
in half while floating down to Earth.

It is morning, the mushroom kingdom
has just awoke for the first time
and those feathers are growing into
Here-seeds.

There is a source from where heart
and mind gain their union of opposites,
there is a source from where they
themselves know no boundaries,
no spaciousness and no one,

There is also a source that disappears
and reappears within a blink,
showing no linear resemblance
whatsoever to the last who is now
pointing in the opposite direction
and taking on the role of first…

To witness the soul-warrior clad
in blessed ceremonial offering to
this world’s unknowns,
who,
in its very soul-outfitted-existence
has woven all that it embodies,
is to be that light by which
it can be said
to have been so blessedly seen.

There is a beloved manifest and it is
holding this music box called, ‘I am.’

*

The soul is like the color Yellow,
it continues through cycled-millions
of tulips till Blue kisses its
limitless exhaustion and they then
give Green flowers to God Noon.

Inertia cannot be found
in thick grass groves;
the breezes,
the cricket violinists,
the growth
and the grazing
make sure of this.

There is a dance
between desire and laziness,
between anything that has Space
as a requisite to say,
‘I am ‘Instead’ of ‘Whomever That Was.’’
that takes apart the showy lace seams
hidden beneath the humble denims
and weaves newer,
more elaborate ones.

There is also a dance instructor made of
fire who waltzes ice bergs into oceans
and square dances seas into hurricanes.

*

Pure blue medicine.

Some kind of cosmos father
is sitting at a desk
about to write in calligraphy his
earth-son’s newly commissioned name.
He glances at him, then looks back to
pencil each letter out as if it were being
born from an original alphabet
for the first time,
to outlast every conception of
‘me,’ ‘I,’ ‘am’ and ‘we.’

There are footprints that can
wrap around bones
while the living flesh is still
that fruit who hangs thereon,

While the sound of footsteps are heard
in a still-sleeping-friend’s dream;
yet, there is no such a ‘thing’
as a dream or sleep, or waking,
when ‘All’ is your name.

*

The candle will smile without being lit,
the flower will smile without being
pulled clean of its petals
so to determine the future
that is often dismissed
as the inappropriate blossom chosen,
so another plucked begins the hope
and the amiss…

The heart will smile when the said,
‘opposite to muck’ lotus
secretly lifts its blooming a little
to show its fertile wetland industries.

There is no saying.

There are no ladders that do not
point up and down simultaneously,
there are no ladders,
no firemen putting out anything
that has not already conceded
to surrender to the void
its expression of joy.

Ashes come from God’s laughter,
while flaming phoenixes fly to
start more.

Truly gregarious love is when
the heart is tasting itself.