John Biscello

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.