the fingerpaints of god

like falling in

love: can’t under

 

stand how it works;

why it stops working

 

or how it winds up

again. how it

 

rings out

in the night–

 

red-sings

across

 

steeples and 

train bells–

 

like how a rail thinks big

and a tower thinks high.

nothing is too much to ask

wheel of the body:

 

earth

air

fire

water

 

:burrow of the mind

 

nothing is

too much

to ask

 

like looking into a

mirror of time

 

we starve

our iron sides

 

of these gifts

 

what do you want

to be when you grow

 

up is really just what

do you want, which is

 

to say: to be happy

 

to walk and not faint

to wear talismans of

fury and fervor

 

to strike love into

things like plants

 

to long for spirit as

one longs to under

stand a language

 

longs to hear the

words and to

 

know

them

 

but we are terrified

of the elements

 

out of balance with

our own making

 

strutting the curb

side of the spine

 

while distant stars set the stage:

all of life, a carbon-dazzled

 

dizzying maze

leading to infinite

 

chains of

choice

 

we perch on the edge

 

facing the throne in

stead of occupying it

 

instead of going in

for the steep feel

 

we do not own our space

 

we habitually lean in,

lean to the power of

 

another tower

 

we—innovators with

wings as eagles, with

 

veins as volcanoes; deep

enough for the hurt—

 

mount up and ride

out to meet them.

 

mine :

this multi-

faceted face

 

naked-birthed

behind the

conflated mask-

space: light-years

 

of oceans of eyes

floating; cavorting;

mourning; storming out

 

of the clay cave

of the hairless head

(still gem-forming)

 

and tri-secting—

 

skeletal embellish-

ments of angry trinity;

fractal dust deserts

furrow-sloping down

 

to precariously perch

their origins atop a full

round of ammunition—

 

a love-mouth begging to be opened;

a soul shell commanding to be filled

: before paper

 

we start off

brilliant

 

like stars

 

kernels engaging

outward

 

twinkling, raging,

blaze-glowing before

 

burning out

 

while some where

over the rainbows,

 

prisms, glass-blowings,

prisons, cut-throat missions

 

a stream runs through it

 

a long thin stretch of the wrist

wading and winnowing

 

a tide of veins; a rush of

messy blood-life

 

inside this iron

cliff-face

 

we carry with us

within which

 

we are being

globally positioned

to serve and preserve

they cut down all of the trees, the

bushes, the crawling ivy and

delicately curling sinews of

grass and time. the birds

are calling to each other,

calling to us, looking for

their homes. i am still-seeking

a space: a quiet-green

carapace to call my own, to

borrow in this brief

breath of time. who needs

a throne when you have been

given all of the vast-purple

riches of the universe?

every thing sees

every thing

sees

 

an effigy of

meaning

 

imprinted in

threes

 

every thing

watches

 

time towers

ticking

 

in a long and

winding

 

series of

stares

 

leading to and

coming from

 

a brighter

every where