Singing Good Friday

There’s something about the arrival of grackles in my yard, the vernal equinox, Seder, Good Friday, Passover, Easter…blooming tulips in life’s joyous insurrection…migrating hawks molting feathers in their wake, black snow sweating over yellow grass, Osiris naked and new for all the world to see and feel and think about…all over again…thank goodness we forget I can’t remember what when we leave wherever it was we were…Iandi Saying Eye Amyou…Reborn intelligence saying Eye Amyou—nitrogen then chlorophyll or id then I now that in human-human beyond being ladder ascending descending from one step perhaps this one to another saying Eye Amyou…Iandi the tide Iandi the evening air Iandi the moonlit night Iandi the vital Amyou crying the sacred cosmos saying Eye Amyou! Eye loves your disguise! Eye savors the taste of your road dust. Eye relishes your chickpea’s flavor. Eye adores being your dog. Eye enjoys your camel’s toe. Eye delights your poet…Iandi’s passion for Eye passes through Amyou finding clarity laughter promiscuity transforming enemies fecunding friends humiliating haters liberating lovers fecunding platelets splattering dancing laughter calling back Iandi saying Eye Amyou!...I Adore Feral Things Almost to Idiocy...lunatic mugs exposing the sea while disguising its blissful gems blessing the solid fuel flying within them determining holiness, that stare in my eye while I dissolve like salt in their liquid swarm, sluicing me of my self, nowhere inside the lingo befalling this muted lily when the newborn, here meat, gets sucked from there unlike that stillness unswept from the fissure in your heart, how feelers adjust their core conditions into feasible creations—that playable song of a locomotive’s remote screeching my unfilled place—tomorrow’s voucher pledging where tonight my elusive pant becomes the glimmer of love reworking the light, insuring your incident is my apocalypse—that blankness of lacking, a delayed morning without direction in the midway human untouchable, insensitively pursuing what I have—be ing no thing why this thick trade of activity pictures demonstrations at the source when all breeds stillness, going subversive and declining to reiterate us—when that unsighted earth trembles like a vagrant in the way, buried in the town of foreigners, yielding from worthy worthlessness, muzzy but stirring, permitting terror-lips to crack open our themes, floating them away, ejaculations of pious conceit flaming Its tower, giving It the flavor of my lovability—fabricating horrors of how I was where a magic ray of skill inebriated my absurdity, making me Babel where the brilliant range of ebbing silhouettes begin with unqualified ease, sun and moon refusing to drape themselves in my enormity—this immense river sinking the raptor so loons can reside happily outside devotion with unruffled esteem, so heron and swan nests might pitch us like sails over this fairy swamp, noshing on sparrows snatched from the sky gushing over many hungry faces—odiferous oppositions free of allied malice when war, that blood-spattered bareness of bowels and brains explodes its confusion without this precise magnificent ingenuity of patience-making sacred tasks converting kingdoms of filth into privileged derelicts so destitute we’re never away, desiring this storm and drizzle of milk-laden Mars suckling Its laughing mother—that visibility when our hushed cerebral envoy crouches, occupied by teeming secrecies, silent furtive tongues syn-taxing the mute frothing boogie woogie washing this orb away by purely subsisting—unfurling the seed’s blooming emptiness…fuck unto fucking fuck unto fucking fuck…Informed By Its Wanting…blowing phlegm from your head for the shaman to cure—that nameless love dog grieving out your crying from, running toward us with my tongue out, dripping anticipation, wild reunion Expressing this longing you long to express answering your spoken prayer, being an echo that squeals this swine in your mind; that intelligent piece of pork boaring you open Birthing itself into your trifle bearing mysterious gifts dangling atop its horn; Provoking your weeping, your fragmented spiritual capacity the reckless and profuse scattering of your seeds your prodigal deadbeat wandering ignorant of Thanatos preferring the wind and rain that have always eroticized our climate that lactating earth milked by her whining child—Informed by Its wanting…a room occupied by visitors…I Am A Visitor’s Room…in which a passing wakefulness goes—A sudden guest, friendly and compelling, comes—flushing me for some new delight, a guide from beyond, doing what lovers do with love—Being that word, that sense of Romeo Juliet felt in his name—the sound that worked for her, dripping its essence on each thing absorbing it, becoming an inner meaning only she knows, poking her why Wherefore art thou becoming a ruby at sunrise, that transparent daily order ripped open by happiness, the purity of name-action a good host who keeps digging your well, knowing: Water’s there somewhere, submitting to its daily practice, knocking on the door until that window opens and you look out to see me—A shape—some uncreated love unmet—becoming the heart that’s informed us from the start, mirroring that well we face, adding sugar to the water from this jar of pouring stones Heaping a mountain to maintain my echo the way I grasp your voice, your name sound burning me into smoke from its fire, an emptiness more beautiful than life obliterating life to create life—This blind world squatting like a beggar in the road, a great soul hiding in a city of strangers, surrendering to praiseworthy emptiness, groggy but awake, letting the fear-language of our themes crack us open and float away, releasing the priest from his tower by burning it, giving him a taste of your almond cake—Where the stars rise spinning every night—blown by a bewildered god kissing his flute Breathing notes with a need that pierces us, memories of that breathing mouth, singing loud Sweeping the floor like a gatekeeper guarding a silence that won’t break And your heart-mule naked enough to get us there…