John Biscello

You are here,

she said,

to take a tentative chance

on the infinite, to teethe,

lovingly, on the numinous zipper of a star

or two,

to gamble away innocence

with a fortune teller’s palm,

grinning stigmata, and not a single shred of guilt

(leave Religion’s business to its flocks),

rot

and ruin will not

do you any good,

the necessity of manure

as fertilizer, and the unending memory

of blue, yes, those things will benefit you,

but rot and ruin, uh-uh, leave those for the tubercular

and the dead.

Remember to remember,

this the whole reason why you’re here,

the winding and ever-widening tunnel

to lighted re-member-ing,

and please do not forget,

that when you write,

none of the words,

not a single one,

belongs to you,

they are the bones and shells

and pearls of a majestic river-run,

and if you are lucky enough

to catch on and get carried along

by what is the equivalent of a liquid

magic carpet ride,

understand, that you are,

at best, a humming conduit,

and privileged guest

in the crystal house of Muses.

So go,

go now,

backed by your soul’s aptitude,

and take a chance on the infinite,

with a clear conscience,

and no assurances,

only dares

into the holy unknown,

where Wonder reigns

with the lightest touch.