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September 16, 2017 | | Comments 0

He Lifts The Piano Lid

September 16, 2017

He lifts the piano lid and the rain doesn’t stop,
Caves turn solid and press groggy grizzlies far out
past their bedtimes and territories,

A white lantern flickers, burning green waxy oil mixed
with lavender, oleander and pine-sap crystals, tears of
elk, owl and buffalo puddle in the bear-tracks left behind,
the march of Unending Beginning has begun in the smallest
way Jupiter knows, while whole moons are rumored to be
hiding in Saturn’s rings, like the shaky vows of youth when
saying ‘I do’ to an agreement Life has yet to breathe tomorrow-
wisdom into,

He cannot stop the spider webs from appearing overnight,
under the lamp-lit, coal-black Little Dipper’s pouring out of
returning, promises piled and woven into fabrics of Time yet
to warm, cloth, tent and umbrella bodies healthy, swollen, bent,
muscular, immaculate and like tree bark upon a soul unified by
Spring and Autumn conjoining,

Trunks of pearls litter a front yard, eviction notices tacked
to a singularly hung door divorced and creaking in a salty,
constant wind mixed with ash, soot, fiberglass fairy-dust and
unopened mail-souls, licking their lips, shielded by pinkish cloud
cover, tasting the stamps’ last gasp for air, immortalized
Picturesque stuck to it-selves and breathing Hawaiian sumo-fire…

A little boy walks out upon the plains and sings to meadows
who once were there, hills now inverted and yawning lagoons-
to-be, ponds dreaming they’re oceans filled with orange pregnant
mermaids and the waterproof plans for Atlantis part-2,
Ghoulish fantasies dance in the ethers of his virgin synapses
as he lights a match and sets dreams to wake and wetnesses
to their yearning handheld buckets ride-aways, rainbows glow,
elephant graves quiver when a mouse runs up above, where
the sunshine comes and goes, with a peanut in its mouth,
wearing a gold-silk thread headdress and a necklace of
carpenter ant heads, scurrying for the Secret Shrine of Ivory,
where the caretakers of pinecone sprite babies sit smoking
and telling of the mythic humans that once were as populous
as the leafs on their world’s last elder weeping willow tree,

Returning to the boy’s fire-god caper: a voice came from
inside the bellows and said ~

‘It’s ok to be broken without a crack, chip, blister, bruise or
wounded warrior evolution story, It’s ok to lie down when
standing up and to say things that mean nothing to you and
everything to the listener, It’s ok to marry a million No’s and
to divorce ‘Yes’ twice as many times, because Maybe is the
fashioner of this renewal-by-fire game-board, whose pieces
change colors so consistantly that saints have been known
to turn to demons for advice as to how exactly is it that
there’s a hopscotch challenge-path at the Gates of Rest &

A phosphorescent daisy in the dark holding a promise of
color to sunrise and white-bone-bonnets desiring contrast
and the wherewithal to secretly parade beneath the breath
of Fame’s watchful six eyes,

Web to winning, venom to victory, cocoon to having lived
a dream exposed to the elements of Time and Space…
You chose to write on your last scrap of paper, to place
it in your last bottle, while then setting it on one last big wave,
‘Words are not important.’ You did this with words and
importance and I witnessed your soul produce a single tear as
a god exhaled and closed a solar system, like a book,
setting it on a nightstand with living legs, a face, a brain
and feelings of no misdeeds, smiling and churning with
unfathomable desire knowing Satiation’s realness ever so
slowly, like two tortoises courting in a bed of whipped

Susan Seddon Boulet_visionary artist

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