A Molten Soul Is Stepping (revisited)

May 29 & 31, 2010

A molten soul is stepping across
fields of ice-acorns,
twisted unread newspapers,
diaries unlocked and making
candles laugh out loud to shooting
stars hidden behind storm clouds.

Across these meadows roam
buffalo herds composed of bright parrots,
who are each belonging to a different
kind of being-silent
and that choose their every word,
pronunciations reaching across
bodies luminous of fossilized
sparkling love making;
the Lovers know this
and celebrate by dying their hair
pure white with the milk of dandelions
and pink roses.

Saturn turns
and throws a Frisbee to Jupiter.

Then, moments begin into Again…

Eyes mirroring the blood-nature
that wicks them to gleaming,
blue hair blowing in orange wind,
white skin flaking off,
revealing a golden haze
of 7PM ceasing closer to 6 o’clock
turning to dust,
Time has plowed a field of plows
with one made of forged soil and rock.

Child dancing in the storm alone
and strong,
dripping Arrival & Gone,
setting monogrammed-everything on fire,
though no show-illumination,
inner-radiance,
pouring out the séances of Sundials
and Impatience,
this one smiled way before
the condition of ‘Only I,’
‘Their that’ and ‘Our this,’
and is walking towards a screen door
that will open without a knock,
whose handle is made of pure gold.

This little-one’s footprints,
that are neither indentions
or reliefs,
a name that isn’t a summons
or an exit.

A kiss that cannot sense when it
has stopped,
nor if it ever started.

A thirst that doubles back upon itself
and ingests only crumbling paste
when given that which cannot turn
the locked heart’s kingdom into a
garden entrance where all can lay hand
to earth and earth to lips surrendering,
this is where telling ceases and tulips
blow their own glass vases.

No volcanoes,
no suns,
points without light
and lighthouses built from shipwrecks,
fueled by oils that were carried
in those cracked open hulls.

The stairway never poured,
never laid,
because he and she would take out,
over the banisters,
into the Field of Done,
where deer made of antlers shed,
lay,
coursing through God’s
subtle interest in all things possible,
followed by a swarm of doves happily
on fire with the Beloved’s trillionth kiss.

The foraging heart,
the simplicity of an exhale
after allot of noise has been made,
the daisy that says ‘no’ to Purple
and ‘yes’ to Yellow and Red.

The lips that dissolve into the fire
of chorusing-bone and Eucharist flesh,
a voice that says ‘So and so’
and the wish that keeps pausing
at the end of each sentence spoken
and wonders where it all went,
those conversations that could turn
on a dime
while leaving the heart
with a half-penny to flip in deciding
or place upon a train track for God
to manage?

Mountains yearn to travel with their streams,
streams yearn to pause awhile
and be that support-enough
for a season’s fledgling’s nest,

Cracking eggs yearn for all,
no exceptions,
whatever it is
that they’re not supposed to be,
they’ve already done that
and that’s how it is
that they are what they are now.

Fire-red energy;
into your bowl of woven gold bones
it goes,
he, bowing down to Death,
he, blowing on God’s airstrip
as an angelic windsock happily wearing out,
he, the movement in a corpse’s eyelids,
he, the fingerprint dissolving
on the tongue of Eternity,
he, the matrimony
and that planet its church is on.