Passion pulsates like fire
in his blood, sudden incineration
from heaven or from hell,
decimates his soul.
The spirit burns to ashes…

A sudden flaring fury…
Ah, the searing pain!
The Sun god’s flaming gaze
singes, electrifies bone marrow,
inebriates the nerves with
the pungent smell of melting wax
and burning wings
as the celestial pyre burns,
in agony divine
are alchemized into a knowing
sentient gold
too late for wisdom or regrets.

In the thundering agony
of death… Chariot collapses,
starry splatter of the suicidal comet
spirals in its descent
to Gea’s gravitational womb
to ashes turned before
the great explosion splits the
heavens and the earth
like a redundancy of ashes
starburst of darkness… Alas!
A god is dead!

From my small patch of sunlit porch
i watch the children play.
They laugh and sing.
They throw and catch a ball
-eternity bouncing back and forth
between them.
I smile at them, rejoicing
in this traveling wholeness i observe,
this total exclusion of winners and of losers,
in the fading rays of summer.
I want to walk the steps from porch to street
and join them in their play,
but my feet are heavy, my heart is old.
They are innocent and i am not.

Land of gloomy dark lagoons
where a scripture undeciphered
holds the secret of mans doom.
Where each life defines its ends
in obscure circumlocutions,
and the paradox is solved
in a presupposed conclusion.

Forgive me for not returning your call.
Your voice caught me wandering,
lost, blind and torchless
through labyrinthine and somber Hades,
hopelessly searching
in blackest darkness for my lost soul.
The exit receded farther the more I groped for light,
without esoteric cartography
or the threaded benevolence of an Ariadne.

Fragments of what I used to call “I”
flew scattered by the western wind like dust
in an unknown infinity of despair.
Clinging at the edges of the abyss of nothingness,
I dangled, desperately gripping
the knife sharp and shredding cliffs
which tore my flesh.

There was no known hand
reaching to me in saving grace
and bridge back to my self
to deliver me from an inevitable and fated crash;
no familiar or unfamiliar friendly face
to call my name
among the ghosts and shadows
and draw me on upwards to safety.

I was alone, defeated, crushed.
Agonizing in the feared yet greater impending darkness,
incoming total annihilation,
mercilessly exploded by the avenging Fates
into a billion nameless atoms.
Anonymous even to myself,
I desperately searched among them
for the one called “I”,
now dark matter,
invisible, intangible, weightless;
now hiding somewhere beyond time-space,
beyond the reach of light,
now ever and without reprieve pulling
with unprecedented gravity
into the voracious guts of death or madness.
It was in my most desperate hour that
Michael, beloved angel of freedom appeared
in the deepest recesses of the labyrinth.
He lit a torch piercing the darkness
and through that crack of light I asked him:
“Can you help me find the sacred atom called Myself
who cries out for me
among the scattered dust which was once me;
those now invisible and heavy particles
turned to dark matter,
change them back
to their original luminous state
and gather them again in recognizable shape?”

He cut the stifled air with his hand
and there appeared a golden gate in the wall of my prison.
Two attending angels appeared
and he presented them to me:
“These are your guardians for now:
I will supervise as they
go on with you in this marvelous hunt
for the radiant cosmic dust
out of which you will be reborn.
Not of earthly dust,
but divine substance now shall be yours.
Dark will turn to light
and a new universe shall be yours.”

Out into the light
I walked holding on to their hands,
As we stood outside the gate,
I felt a strange and delicious spidering
upwards through my spine.
The attendant angels looked on smiling
as I sprouted wings as light as gossamer.

And as I stood there in wonderment,
winged Michael stepped forward
and placed his hand on my head.

A flash of lightning split the heavens
and entered my head;
the blindfold fell from my eyes.
And I could see,
spread all over the sky, a radiant cloud
made up of an infinitude of luminous particles
of luminous dust circulating among the galaxies.

Then the attendant angels stood
on either side of me
and took my hands and spoke for the first time:
“Let’s fly ”.
I flew back into my soul in sacred procession,
carrying the holy atom of the self
back to its throne.

Yes, you are. Straight, I mean.
Horizons curve
containing, defining margins, edges,
shapes, frontiers.
Galaxies speed away in sweeping curves of energy
doing and undoing themselves
in multiple births and self-abortions;
swerving in and out of being,
constantly lit
by refractions and diffusions of bentness.

The dead are very straight.
The archaic dead, mostly, are very straight.
Olduvai Gorge was filled with them
before Leaky bent them into
the shape of a hypothesis.

Yes, you are straight – I said before.
Not by death.
In a universe where motion comes in
swirling ellipses of radiance
bending back to kiss its tail,
straightness is outright obscene.

Not by death,
but by the endless orbiting of Life
ruled by warping, folding, self-caressing,
dervishing about in irrepressible madness.

Definitely, being bent out of shape
by cosmic modeling
is law.
To be thus twisted, as we are,
is the only straightness.
Therefore, my dearest, face it
Straight on (or should I say
Bent on?);
You are straight
as the intergalactic beam which snakes
back upon itself
across the universes.
And I love you dearly
as you are.

The visitation

We are visited by a terrible angel
-weaver of the woof