Here it is, finally.
A séance for the living,
real-time cinema for possessed bones
and sad visionless ghosts,
who are on the cusp of claiming
their spacious reams of empty,
and time-locked vagrancy.
The door behind the door has never existed.
It is a shadow, a tease, a mirage,
a trick of the light.
The way in, doorless, immeasurable.
In this chapter in the book that has gone unread for millennia
(we’re meaning between the lines),
there will appear an ancient-new breed of sorcerers, magicians, mystics, pagans, and witches,
and a summons for the renaissance of the psychic lighthouses
which are seeded in the green-fire country of our hearts.
Do not let the packaging fool you.
Your glyphic bones have flown long distances,
and played dateless concerts in the sky.
When opening your mouth, like so,
you will taste impossibly blue flowers falling out
to anoint secret ceremonies attended
by the world’s lovers and dreamers
of which we have plenty.
And you, you are living mythology,
a blessed paradox
of tensions aligned
to swing and sync
in music never-ending.
This is not a test.
Do yourself a favor:
Burn your old exam papers,
take a hissing blowtorch to the edifices
which falsely coronated the importance of these exams,
or better yet, forget the blowtorch,
the burning, the exams,
forget all of it
and just walk away,
going gently into that good new dawn,
its spawning membered
by your devotion
to the heart’s sired calling.
In this séance for the living,
dream love’s lighted labor
into your breath, and pauses,
and as you approach whatever necessary death awaits,
know that you are not alone,
and your life beyond the flirting veils
is one which demands the tenderest of braveries.