I Don’t Pray In Churches (baby)
Sense impressions and muscle memories intertwine.
Moments ago -
feeling her breath on my skin,
her dreaming silhouette
as she writhed above me.
Feeling the edges of the universe
unravel and thread through us.
The boundlessness of ******,
shattering worlds and collapsing stars,
the tightening spiral a galaxy within.
how each of us
is holographically imprinted on the universe,
and all in us,
how our breath encompasses worlds,
how time and gravity are also love.
I remember other bodies,
but they’re drowned out by the moment,
filtered into nothing by senses
and the demands of physical being.
how we find each other
in searching for ourselves.
Our children are not our own.
They too echo the heart of all being;
a hollow heart where echoes never fade.
They belong to that deep thing
at which philosophies and religions only hint;
that which our consciousness obscures
while expressing perfectly.
No not ours.
A butterfly caress along
the spine and she writhes.
I lose all sense of balance without falling,
a universe of sensation.
Some muscle memory takes over
and I revel in the strength of my limbs.
I grasp her by the hips
and she becomes a willow branch I use
to whip the sky to a bloody froth.
Any moment now she’ll burst into flames.
Her grasping pleasure is indistinguishable from my own,
nor from the heat and the pain
and the slick metallic gleam of my blood on her lips.
Take me in.
Her tears are my reward
as much as the pinpoint universe
that threatens to explode from me at last.
As knowing the rusty bite of my blood in her mouth.
She whose image I worship in dream quests.
We drift together disembodied
as our inarticulate thrashing
resonates in chorus
with the starlight,
starfire, solar winds -
gravitic rhythms and the songs of entropy.
of a better world.
Show me again
how love is the law
because time is an effect of gravity
and gravity is love
and every element of existence reflects its nature
and the universe is conscious
because we are conscious
and we are it,
the mind of God,
and just as memory is holographically imprinted on the mind
so we …
how we change
with the grace
of our myths.
Show me again
why death doesn’t matter.
Let’s get caught
by the law
and escape again.
Let’s tear the hearts out of poets.
Let’s stay and play insane.
sumnerkagan 46-50, M 0 May 1, 2012