Love, Here we go again. Begin. Begin to try and say this thing again.
Snapping fingers, crackling light, Flashing eyes, it strikes a line straight through the sky of body – mind – bone cage pain as I arrive, brightly typing out a spinal jive, and a hipster trip-up like so nothing!
I fall into the jaggedness, an utter raggedness torn from a ragged shard-shifting sky, and I? I delight in cracking back this body garment gander of feeding seed-thoughts deeply into blue stemmed stories we dreamed up as we blossomed in late night talk.
Streaming out and shaking the staff of Isis at the Moon, I have tuned out from shouting credentials in stanzas that stand in the way of the middle ground.
All around me soundlessly, something snaps in two, breaking, aching away into a splintered blue-skinned, stemless thing.
With eyes still flowing in sea-weedy waves, we wave good-bye long into the night, crying to the salt-doll bobbing in probability, willing the scatter-fall upon the torn shores of this heart, parting lightening strikes brightening the sight of rare
scattered pine trees breathing barely, lying there staring straight ahead at the dead stars burning away into the sky they fell from.
I am not God’s walking stick, nor the trick knee keeping me writing tales bordering on the unintellible ramblings of a madman.
The feet under my legs, they hold the earth between them, a chalice of bone bearing the lost language of a tongueless race.
They be as proud as a giant, ancient pine tree lying stillborn against a sapling stand of tongue lilies, silly from singing mutely, beautifully …
Saying so much the broken stick mendings begin.
Tiny twig, me, here against your forest of prose, of boundlessness.
I lie down whyless beside the only singular tree seen, praying, saying again and again, “Broken stick. Tiny twig, here, lying next to You I am imbued with a pure blueness I never knew until you.”
All this Beauty breaking forth inside my hollowed out Heart, the utter poignancy of being, the tender kindness of Birth and Death,
It breaks apart every last retortable orb of resistance, rounded, mooned and marooned, imperceptively moving through me and you, yonder bounding astounding you and I, you and I, crying … flying from Love’s center, into Love’s epicenter.
This Roundness is growing rounder, and Now, I flow out with you into the edger-most most motionless movements of God.
His Love-Filled Face fountains out into a Golden Moment of Bliss. I think it might be that all of this is God’s Bliss … and this Love we feel:
Maya’s string bringing it all Home one more time.
We’re all beautiful kites at Life’s picnic, tethered to the hand of Love.