Please,
do not be afraid
of your bardic voice,
it only wants to burn
through toxic dross
and spiritual plaque,
it burns,
with the soul’s best interest
at heart,
and your responsibility
as an alchemical user,
is how to turn arson
into the art of holy fire,
realized.
The heart’s reminder–
When walking
through the necessary gateway,
the portal conscripted
to your own fulfillment
and radiant quest,
it is not about
reinventing the science
and geometry of walking,
but rather, taking steps,
simply, boldly, one after
the next,
until you reach
your respective there,
motion and stillness
conspiring to merit
your new, immediate present.
I am a young boy,
fated to innocence,
walking through
the lavender mist
of Time’s softly slipped dream,
every grain
of sand
a stitch
in the marvel
of kingdom’s comely veil.
I will
no longer
martyr
the best parts
of myself
to other people’s crosses,
nor indulge the residual
bane of Shame’s
heart-slaying voices
in committing soul-treason,
the season of green fire is
upon me,
and I will do what I can
to honor Kuan-Yin’s
soft white lotuses
floating nobly
in a pond
full of sharks.
Call me crazy
but I am
completely
and madly
and utterly
in love with life,
its manifold fingers
on the pulse of the sun,
its fleshy, ripening
portents, and winged hushes,
I have become
the guy
that sees rainbows
wildly spitting color
as if
to rechristen the gleam
in my eyes,
the lover of historic
gray silences
coursing through
the veins of stones,
to walk,
with my head
tilted skyward
in praise of hawks,
their lofty, gliding
amens
a salve for my mortal heart,
how I became this guy,
I don’t know,
Catholic-Italian Brooklyn
boy
from rough-hewn streets
and corners
I was,
and now,
a single blade of grass
has the power
to slow me down,
the bark of olive trees
has left imprints on my lips,
and clouds bundled
in a snowdrift symphony,
play me to the reveries
of Mozart’s ghost
in fleece,
or how the sea
tailors its own
furl-fringed script
and pearlescent art,
tandemic
to Mister Shakespeare’s
wisdom-pop,
There are more things
in heaven and earth
Horatio
than are dreamt of
in your philosophy,
yes,
the sudden turns
of wonder,
and sorrow,
fill the heart’s bask,
and here I am,
a scarred feather in a gale,
carrying the scrim of wonder
to its most lucid
yield.
You say you want a revolution?
We’ve got a moon,
a blade of grass,
and windblown petals.
Bring your white flag,
and let’s get it on.
Falling
in love
is easy,
it’s just like
getting drunk.
Loving,
in balance
and sobriety,
is the true art
and challenge.
Untucked,
she came to me,
a pensive fairy
gleaning motes
of pollen,
and the pearly scintilla
of dew,
after having been
locked away in an attic,
far away from home,
for so very long.
She rested easy
in my palm,
breathing tiny puffs
of fragrant air,
and melted specks of light
that filtered through the heaven
of my veins,
warming me
to a state of woozy cherish,
to love, unbarred.
We,
as humans,
have the inalienable right
to bare hearts,
pouring molten
light
and lush vines
of dark,
to practice humanity
in all its patterns
and forms,
we, the living
revolutionary works of art
forever
in the process of becoming
what we already are.
The secret to becoming
a true revolutionary,
lay yourself
out upon
the world’s limitless altar
of secrets,
and praise
the hidden roots
of everything
you encounter
daily,
heart bared
as proof of light’s
need to air.
