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January 17, 2009 | | Comments 0

Sabastian Hizey of Puyallup

January 17, 2009

Sabastian Hizey of Puyallup

Being a little boy,
Looking at red blurred circles,
Merry-go-rounds, horizontal Ferris wheels
and fireflies caught in a jar who now only
understands what it held on the storage shelf
by its label reflecting off your eyes looking in…

Contents absorbed,
contents contented and
thickly gliding to be met by no-worries,
no-wishes, no-mismatched socks
or forget-me-nots…

Violets, geraniums, ladders touching the space
where the tree house floor once was; the nails
released themselves when the wood-members
did, though the swing rope still clings, tied in so
many knots, you’d think someone was nervous
about Nervousness’s end.

Thank you for your existence,
your laughter and your tonality as All Child,
as a weaponless love and an imperishable,
improbable, and nearly impossible dove,

Bird of all feathers and mysterious collection
of a oneness that knows nothing of privatization or
competition, only beholding and the beheld,
liquid rubies and oceans of bright nocturnal
coral welcome-ways.

No, I changed nothing
in my giving of his name,
And he is He,
And since you asked,
He’s you too,
by the way,

A mirror of ancient,
trickling associations
that teach and
teeter-totter
on the see-saw
of the heart, with no
final touchdowns,
eternal outermostness.

It has been my experience that all children are
capable of these physiological magicalnesses,
that each is to its own realm of giving and
receiving in this world of appearances,

Behind the assurances of the adult,
even the assurance that there are no assurances…
This portrait stands breathing in a blossom that
never creases, that never wilts, that never asks
the Earth for permission to drink or to be the color
it is.

To beget oneself, Sabastian Hizey of Puyallup,

There you were, though still it is with you, so,
The Then is not and is something, in the heart,
in the collections of what boys gather together
up-to-that-point to where the solar winds visit
inwards, sunshine dips into the chest, past the
daily brand-news, past the breathing, past the
circular driveways and very past the way people
do things ‘their way’…

Life moves out of the body by two permissions,
One, by the say of the Rose in the rose,
Two, by the say of the spirit binding the
R and O and S and E together to form such,
way before our upright traveling ‘makes it to it,
so to be sure’ that such blooming things are
‘really THAT beautiful’, even after we’ve broken
off one of its blessings to honor-to-ourselves for
Traveling-away’s sake.

Yes, we come apart,
Settlements break and foundations crumble
by the slow pressures of vines and mushrooms,

Humidity and the warrant to grow,
Rainbows and cough syrup,
Sleigh rides and a chocolate Labrador retriever’s
unconditional Frisbee collection…

All is well, my little brother,
God’s shoulders are never heavy enough,
The sky is never light enough,
The swan is just enough to bring awe no matter
how many times we turn away from it and back
around again, to try and surprise ourselves with
that first beheld-feeling, over and over again.

We male incarnations chant inside hollow funnels,
Our voices draining out into the jungle we’ve woven
from our spontaneous and awkward outwardnesses,
out of our mistakes held at bay by sophisticated
camouflaging horticultural services, and then there’s
redemption from all that, when the funnel comes
dancing home to the announcer, asking no permission
to whisper all the hinges in the house away,
like the flutist-mouse-enchanter,
the hinge-enchanter weeps and laughs
at the same time,
stepping into ‘I was’ and into ‘I am’;
the road turns of pre-school-desk-top-color-tan
and the weather is perfect for you, only you,
only you…

There is no ‘As I write this’…

Allelse summons thunder to cotton,
And cotton to roam about in slight breezes
amongst granite shapes with names written
squarely, aligned perfectly, no spelling mistakes.
Nothing resembling the looks of our first report-
cards, these adult things whisper another tune.
Not necessarily for the sake of what magic
whispering induces, but rather, so as to not
disturb the suspicions hiding beneath the lonely
children beset way, way, way back because of
something called ‘serious business’, ‘serious
issues’, ‘serious relationships’ and ‘serious
seriousnesses’…

The foregrounded Adult, a fifth direction
to North. South, East and West… We still
do not know where to call the sled dogs to
go with this one…

Mortal in an immortal world,
Stepping on stepping stones
because they are there
and The Void too…

Blessed spaciousness with your name
gently laying there, resting, an estuary
of pure giving and receiving of You…

I mesh into the fabrics of bronze, gold,
diamond, labyrinth legends and church
club first place quilt-blue-ribbons, and
I hail Hercules and he stops, disowns all
his labors and helps me erase the outlines
History have made of him on the clear,
clean pavements leading to where you
are now standing…

We surrender to your ending any belief
systems in endings and flow,
flow ceaselessly into beginning,
into smiling, as rays of you
overestimate us, over and over again…

Thank you for your calling,
for the reminder of how delicate a spectator’s
contented palace can be…

Bless your knighthood,
bless your castle-kingdom
and bless wherever and however
it’s possible to bless another
without thinking of me.

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