Free Will

Paladin

Years later,
he feels the vial
against his chest
that holds
the only fragment of lightsong
given freely to him.

At night, sometimes,
he drifts
to a dead and thankful sleep,
as it melts,
the glass unvitrified,
the sand photonic
hourglassing inside him.

Always,
the next morning
it is whole,
emanating the piece
of the light
of the heart
of the hand
that sought to clasp his;
and even to raise him up
out of darkness
everblack.

Shaking his head,
he pushes forward,
raising his shield;

the demon is already swinging.

Rising Sign

So,
I do not think
any longer should wonder
be entertained
in this waking dream
as we apart
seek that bridge that spans aeons
and even stellar cradles.

I have figured it
in the alchemy of
quantum entanglement,
on the blackboard of the heart,
inside the mandala of time.

Listen,
for water seeks to give.
Waves throw themselves
on the shore of the land.
Rain falls to the skin of the earth,
liquid seeking the embrace
of the deep
and sanctuary of the bedrock;
and roots to drink it,
feeding the hungry pulse of life.

Water gives; so what is water
without a heart-receiver
but only a universal solvent?

Into water one may throw
infinite strikes;
ever will it resume its shape.
Onto water one may project
mountains of rage,
and it will only reflect
what you already know.

Fire,
fire is simpler still,
and only seeks a hearth
with the fuel of an endless heartbeat.

So,
while the free winds
strike their vastness upon the sky,
and paint what they will,
a vessel of water and flame
would be only placed at the altar
before the ancient tree
whose roots grow deep
into the sod and stone…

…combusting growth into dreams
and gifts eternal and warmth in winter;

and silently,
offering a song of praise
for the birth
of earth on earth.

Orison 5:22 AM

Christ, these bags are heavy…
what exactly did you get?

Come look, I got
10 things they don’t want you to know,
and my god could beat up your god,
and 50% off,
and at least I’m not a deviant,
and she’d never think you’re
a good dancer,
and you really aren’t married yet?,
and they hate our way of life,
and that’s not what I meant,
that’s not what I meant;

static,
and these dreams go on
when I close my eyes,
static,
and rock my world little country girl,
static,
and let’s stay together,
static,
and they stab it with their steely knives,
static,
and lovin’ is what I got,
static,
and fire is the devil’s only friend;

1,000 days, 1,000 drops
of my saltwater ocean
hitting the ground,
and you’re not good enough.
Did you know that?
I’m and You’re not good enough.

I used to keep my drawings
under the bed. I never showed
anyone
the
burning running biting broken sheetrock lover’s footprints falling breath of evening illuminates the smell of bread in the oven colliding with rainwater tracked in from the science museum where the Most High God smacked my ears and eyes and lungs with the burden of dying stars and gave the final joke as a Christmas present tied up with a perfect bow.

My cells want to fall asleep.

This still makes no goddamn sense,
even though your head fits
perfectly
in the crook of my neck
and everything else matches
like Lego pieces
and dust settles
on my grandfather’s desk
(a middle finger LOL to entropy
in this universe of endless light).

Absolution

everyone in this
defiled city
participates
in the dance of death

Not a blood sacrifice
on the altar of conquest;
not a dutiful chore
checked off with the groceries
and the collection plate,
and the towel-folding;
nor a stipulation,
nor a bargaining chip.

No.
Not a tool.

The vessel of our worship,
the unseen conversation
of tactile grace in the dance electric-

God damn you
and the way your back arches
when you pin up your hair;
I cannot get your stain
out of my soul.

I would trace my fingertips over your scars like a murderer’s over rosary beads.

You know better-
lightning can strike the same place twice;
shall I show you?

When
I have to come up for air,
or my hand is saying “come here”;
when
your forehead is touching the ground,
or you are knelt with hands folded-

Is that not all a kind of prayer?
Will we make one another beg
for forgiveness?
What is there to forgive? Shadows?

Shadows have no pulse.

So,
tell me…
how long has it been
since your last confession?

Phoenix

So you,
spark fed by the wind
laying waste to the forest;
whisper on the ear
becoming a tornado;
ripple spreading in the ocean,
birthing the tsunami;

the soul of the earth
men would let blood for;
and the flower
growing from the bones of the dead,

what say you to sleep?

And what fault then
lies in the spark,
in the breath,
in the ripple?

We are, all of us,
formed from the dust of the ground
and the death of the star.

So who is to blame this night?
The beauty of this destruction
is in the birth from the ashes.

Leylines

Roads of dirt, and of pavement,
fences of split rail, and of barbed wire,
lengths of time, linked together in chains;
we move along them,
now racing, now clinging-
each of us under the same sun,
each of us with the same heart;
we stand in our own clearings,
build our own altars,
and send up our own prayers
that drift into the sky;

even though

we sit under the same tree,
ears crushed by the same thunder,
held by the same embrace of the morning,
laying flowers on the same grave,
and folding the same hands-
some smooth as alabaster, some rough as rawhide.

And sometimes,
sometimes,
the web converges,
sometimes I meet you,
sometimes the rhythm aligns,
the tide goes out, taking our footprints,
the shadows collapse, light breaks over the horizon.

Sometimes,
you rest your head on my shoulder,
and I rest mine on yours.

Angel

Shackled to rock
above high cliffs of white,
where clouds gather in the shapeless dark,
thunder growls
and spits lightning
on her head,
illuminating
rains that fall down her face,
mixing with tears
that flow around her smile.

Each drop is a moment.

When the air is still,
she lights what incense is left
in this nameless place
and prays,
making music without instrument,
holding the lock that binds her,
watching the flame dancing across feathers
torn from her wings.

There is a key.
I have seen it.

Now,
if you have ever wondered
how a star can die
or a diamond can form,
why beauty has no age…
if you have ever seen
a bird in its cage,
you will know why she sings
the way she does.

Tabernacle

Hush, now;

the sun is spilling over these unending pastures,

and she is standing at the end of the field,

watching

the coupling and the uncoupling,

the warp and the weave,

the sky and the soil;

and, holding a handful of dirt,

sees light race to the edge of the prairie

where it drops off into space.

There is a voice, here,

a scrap of sermon remembered:

“…let us reap this rampant harvest from the firmament.”

She stands, letting the stalks brush her hand-

some are bent,

some are broken,

some are painted with a swath of morning,

and some are spattered with a thin trail of blood,

as tails of air uncoil in the wheatgrass

over miles of root woven to the earth,

pulling at the groundwater;

something moves, a pulse

insistent as the creak of a wooden pew,

in this place

unleavened as the bread

cooled upon the dinner table.

Hush, now;

she stands at the end of the field

as the wind stirs behind her,

and, for a moment,

picks fragments of ash

from a naked foundation.

Human Nativity

We are products of melting,
sloughed from the purest ore,
dismissing what insults our own souls.

Tonight, as the dark shroud of heaven covers the earth,
the mother with child will kneel, asking, Why must I be your servant?
And a sister will say, You are blessed among women.

As a light seeks to pierce the blackened reaches,
the boy rises, and asks, Why must I go?
And a father answers, No one else will.

As the lonely shadows grasp along the land,
the man asks, Why must we learn to die?
And another counters, What is God’s will?

Tomorrow, as the old man rises to greet the spilling gray dawn,
he asks, Why?
And is greeted with nothing but the rain.

We are products of melting;
if we knew, we would be God.
And as the Multiverse asks the question, it shudders under the weight.