The Inextinguishable

March 7, 2010

The inextinguishable roaring fire
of exhaustless love,
a sort that brings the lover to the cliff side
and when that height who bears looking
up endlessly and down limitedly,
enduring this simultaneously,
sees the lover,
it must jump off first,
way beyond the Earth’s capability
to say, ‘Stop’
and out of the way
of the uncut-jewel-eater,
so it can keep walking
not saddled by a Life-mane
and Death-gallop.

While thousands of oysters weep
beneath the sloshing of the cove waves,
due to the fact that Time isn’t fast enough
for their wishes to be fulfilled
to string that lover’s neck with pearls
before sunset.

Caves that close their yawning mouths
as the lover passes by looking for shelter
and who tremble inside
out of habit at being anciently
near The New
glowing pink radiance
permeating solid avalanched stone,
filling their dark voids
their now-pliable-walls,
wet like the inside of the Beloved’s
wine-tipped-back mouth,
laughing,
gurgling with galaxies cooling
and belly dancing pre-god Adams & Eves.

The lover is going through a whole
civilization’s worth of clothing,
yet, it’s not enough
to cover one square millimeter
of its naked, glowing orange testament
to that workshop who makes
the sort of Revelation-trumpets
that do not melt when angelic breath
and hands touch through them.

Burning tree of branches
made of sugar, salt,
aspirin, flour,
calcium and caulk,

Sunflowers walking,

Beds made of pillows
filled with postage stamps
and voices spread out on God’s bread
like July room temperature-safflower butter.

Body, with a skin of eyes,
wide open and looking in,
heart and new umber cobra friend,
the sort of love that is reminded
in addition to remembering all that
it has held and which has let go,

And the paradoxes swarming so
blessedly thick when Letting-go
grasps back twice as tight as having had;
footsteps coming down the stairs of heaven
are louder than those ascending
for the first time.

Side by side trains
sparking a single pair of tracks
and running smoothly across
molten, once-crushed-granite.

Harmonica spoken to the lover
through a fabric window lifted,
candles lit by heart-strikes
and a sky who has totally disappeared
inside a spoonful of God’s favorite honey.

Not like other lovers
and exactly the same,
since comparison has vanished,

Collections have lost their memories
of having ever been gathered,
while rain is listening to the inside
of a baby’s palm touching the smooth
oaken rails late at night,
with moonlight pouring
in the bedroom windows,
fairies glowing up the shadow parts
of the panes,
and sprites fluffing up the carpet
for this child’s first solo walk tomorrow,

As an angel, galactically far away,
weaves a living sarcophagus
who’ll in time
be this King’s chief-gardener,
able to walk, talk
and be the breathing Horn of Plenty.