Friday, May 30, 2014

transaccidation


We circumnavigate a globe of curiosities,
existing mostly caught up in our heads,
distracted by myriad miniature euphorias. 
Preoccupied by hangnails, too intent 
on finding sand dollars.
Beach-combing through the pounding surf, 
we forget to see the sea.

Lazily,
we resort to binaries,
Categorizing the world in
platitudes of gray and dun.
Sir Left Brain, kept in the dark
regarding Herr Right Lobe's affairs,
grows wanton with organization.
We dub phenomena spiritual,
to separate them from the physical;
a last-ditch attempt of fallen titans
to delineate specific spheres,
where we can navigate without
fear of sea monsters.
A game of chance
where we control the outcome.

But physical accidents, wavering, weak
bear the brunt of spiritual substances.
As lightly as pollen rests upon
our Easter lily's stamen,
the supernatural caresses earth's lusty clay,
with eyelash soft embraces.
The great mass of the unchanging
hides inside old splinters,
relics stained in blood,
and stairs carpeted by pilgrim's knees.

We board our ships,
never expecting to encounter
a reality that burns inside us.
Scorching, chlamydial flames
feeding off the rot
that festers underneath our hearts.
How could one expect
to find a fire in a barren place?

And here,
A spiritual althelete of superior mien
beached on urban shoals.
Deserted in the midst of city streets--
Anthony's wilderness could never
compete with all this color--
Decadence surges from the market's tents.
Surrounded by the scent of turmeric,
air perfumed by camel dung and
sweet incense from the Temple,
her soul cracks with emptiness.
And here,
nothing.

A heartbeat inside a cask of wood.
She follows the sound,
licking her lips.
They taste of the salt air of her voyage,
They are wet with temptation and fig juice,
They cry out with stuttered anticipation.
Just past the gate of lips,
her heart beats faster and faster still,
until it almost flies out of her throat.
She runs to the door,
drawn to the warmth of its wood
as a firefly follows the tail of a comet.

Here, the crux of the matter, the heart of the tale:
She stumbles.
She stops.
Our little soul, so eager, is halted.
No visible hand restrains her;
No mortal shape prevents her.
Inexplicable inertia arrests her movement.
She recoils, a willowy battering-ram,
then, forward she surges, once more
attempting to win a victory
of entrance through the cedar doors.

Commence with your tears, sweet soul.
The way is shut against you.
As she weeps, she is invisible.
Pilgrims pass by, and not one stoops
to give her their hand or dry her tears.
Only one woman holds her in her arms.
And there, the little spirit finds
a sort of love she never knew existed.
A sort of tenderness lost in the
rough sea winds that
calloused her maidenhood.

Inside of her, something is shaken loose.
the tears have carved an opening,
a hole in the wall.
An insignificant crack
in mortar between the bricks.
But a beginning.
Water flows,
no longer from her eyes but through her soul,
irrigating deserts within that she had never weighed.
Ominously, the scales swing in front of her;
she shivers in her mother's arms.
With leaden feet, she begins to tread
the twelve heavy steps,
 back to the doors of cedar.
Her feet burn each time they met
the dusty ground,
as though she walked across
a carpet of thorns.

Then--
paralyzed by hope--
could it be?
Yes.
Here.
This pavement.
Kneel and kiss it.
Warmed by afternoon sun,
watered by pilgrim's tears,
baptized by your embrace.
This pavement is your
Golgatha,
a gate so narrow,
few would elect to enter it.

Creaking on its hinges, the door of cedar
gives way to your gentle nudge.
One push, and you are in.
There, the wooden relic splinters
justice's scales.
And something in you scatters,
no longer wound together,
caught tightly in the cacophony
of the whorehouse within you.
Loosed from bondage,
the pages of your story scatter in
the spring breeze which rustles through you,
Clearing out the dust,
leaving sweet freshness in its wake.

Go cross the Jordan, child,
and rest.
Your tears have bought you
perpetual serenity.
Not a Facebook sort of Sabbath,
but the ameliorating peace of self-examination,
which soothes your cracked and
calloused soul with calm.
So long as the self in question has
been lost on the warm pavement
in front of cedar doors.


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