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May 13, 2017 | | Comments 0

I Was Amiss When The Skeleton Turned And Sought A Kiss

April 16 & May 13, 2017

I was amiss when the skeleton turned and sought
a kiss,

There came a deep thumping of my heart, a pause
in my breath, a remembrance of a lost part, a vision
of a living flat stone breathing, skipping across Death’s
river of bliss, feeding on delicate fluffy feathers floating
on the single surface of an enormous acid and sugar buss,

Pure white satisfactions giving up blossom, cherry and
jasmine velocity,
I eased into the invite, tore away fright, lined the inside
of my skin with moss, salamanders and diamond sparkling
kites,

I heard someone from the wilderness yell ‘beware!’ and
smiled, understanding that book covers are raincoats,
never the tongues tasting the Weather-lover’s deeper
wares,

I embraced its hard pelvis, its big thighbone joints,
felt its ladder-rung-spine up and down, side to side and softly
attempted inside out, clutched its rib cage and shook it hard,

Not a tooth dislodged, not a bone meandered out of place,
Its atlas stood strong and bearing a world-conception’s worth
of fruit, atmosphere and songs dreaming in hammocks waiting
for musicians to be form-born,

It was an official, welcomed-sturdy-Journeyer to me, in my face,
of my place, beyond leather and lace, momentously bare-boned,
the gift before gifts, white weathervane dancer, black dragon
romancer, child of necromancers and Vulcan caverns,
bewildering Undead-lives a lot, tied to Freedom, tethered to
hollow ladybug spoons and Neptune piers stacked high with
sugarcane, tulip bulbs and windmill-sail-rafts destined for
Pluto’s rainbow mermaid preschools,

I whispered inside its sea foam home twin-door hollow head
and said ~ ‘I’m the sound of the ocean they’ll hear when the
witnesses who’ll come after our love affair pronounce us dead
and gone, a myth, a dream craving to come alive, to un-crumple
itself from 12mm panoramas and be amongst the silent churches
on pathless meadows, their lock-less doors and windows
gleaming with all the colors of this world; how they swarm
around Queen Pupil, depth-full well to King Retina, their
kingdom, the rays of light that fulfill sight, sound, feeling and
breathing in and out… Heartbeat masters repairing broken
drums on the edge of Tomorrow’s eagle nest.’

You were silent as the grey titanium ships arrived, pulling
newly born oceans out from The Void, destined for teenage
earth gods and goddesses, for waterfalls naïve of cumming,
cacti spirits, priceless and poorless, blooms on their insides
dancing in the moonlight of deceased Narcissus, Echo braiding
his hair with the shed skins of Medusa’s midnight full moon
seashore dance,

Silent still when the 1400th elephant graveyard came roaming
into town, passing through ruby palaces like July evening
foothill breezes,
It’s that time of our five thousand day year again, when they
come,
Everyone leaves their doors open, very large doors, where
doormen are Kings and their daughters wear crowns in a
public who understands that service carries vices and ices,
that real success is day to day and trophies are only reminders
of how Luck and hard earned touchstones love one another,
conditionally and unconditionally, simultaneously by means
of speechlessness and untouchability upon the ever expanding
mane of Great Mystery, morphing, dwarfing and sword
swallower of a million armies and peace gatherings,

The sun is rising and a crow caws loudly into the steering
wheel’s radius it’s roosting upon, leafs rustle as Nothing
walks by holding the hand of Everything, carrying Something
on its shoulders, dropping peacock seeds in their footprints
as they go…

You turn to me,
I’ve learned to read your silhouette by now,
How you communicate by tilt, gesture, posture and the
subtle manipulation of your negative spaces defined by
bone, mummified tendons, sunlight, treetop shade and
where and how you place yourself in amongst this world’s
other objects, how you laid down inside me as I eased into
cell division, how you move when I move, how you can’t
wait to feel weight waiting for the weightlessness of reprieve,

White blossom of this red heart,
Eraser of all that’s tradition; planned and historically correct
and wrong,
Returner of the golden billionaire to its penny copper
encampment, quiet, humble, enraptured and giddy,
Fire to King Arthur’s table, dust-sprite to the monuments
and alabaster pelt upon the back of a living gargoyle lion’s
wide open mouth, yawning its Kingdom into wakefulness
and roaring it to sweet slumber…

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Filed Under: Michael

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