I want for . . .
‘where sorrow has no meaning’
is opened and exposed.
Where without considerations
‘what exhumes out of me’
goes out as a spirited claim.
I want for my words
to be meaningless
unless your soul hears
into what I am saying.
Words, like bird flocks
forewarning an oncoming
of destiny’s avalanche.
Words,
like the first apparent stage
of a metamorphosis
that slowly transforms
the showers of meaning
that were falling wastefully
onto what had grounded me
fully until then.
I want for those sounds
deep-rooted beneath the words
to outlive the meanings implied.
For the birds to die
their songbird deaths
and the melody to be taken up
by the breeze and trees
as soul heat rising.
I want for sorrow
to leave its wardrobe
of unmet expectations
and situational disappointments.
For deep dearth yet unknown
to be razor to the seam
that gets me there.
I want for all the rules
of deep soul life on display,
common to all
as a first order
of exchange and response.
No more hideouts
of complaint or duplicity,
no more presumed insulation
or collective denial,
no more consensual entitlement
or positional agreement.
I want for the sweet slime of being
to ooze and pour.
For the acrobats
of intention and love
to perform center stage
within all of us.
I want to disrobe of my innards
that seek safety or calm
as my role
of self-guardianship possessed.
Let us all be the freefall
and let sacred gravity applaud us
by holding us back!
As long as our lives have audience
may they not be seated
and sojourned.
What dance does not make do
with what rhythms
expose of them?
I want for the beat
and the space between,
for evocative as permission,
jubilant as release,
ecstasy without the burden
of experience,
timelessness consuming,
depiction’s death,
sorrow as the sunrise
of burning bliss
and bygones . . . to be gone . . .
No comments:
Post a Comment