I DIDN’T MAKE A HOLY COLOURING BOOK OUT OF THE COSMIC SCRIPTURE OF MY LIFE
I didn’t make a holy colouring book out of the cosmic scripture of my life
but I sure liked painting it. I’ve got so much respect for stars
redshifting into longer wavelengths of thought.
Meditative x-rays cogitating on themselves as if in each one them
you could see a blood cell or the seapoppy of a passionate B.C. Sunset
crumpled like a tropical duvet of clouds on the far horizon
of everything where the sun goes down to die.
And be born again if the Egyptians get it right. Maybe.
Hell’s pretty this time of year. The moon blooms in winter don’t forget.
Houris around the fountains of Salsabil. With coral lips
that no man has ever kissed before. And veils, veils, veils
everywhere with eyes behind them like star globes
at three in the morning out in this desert of stars somewhere
the sphinxes let down their hair like a henna oilslick
that’s cut like a crystalline goblet apprenticed to a prophetic skull like mine.
I like them as women and they way they keen. So convincing
I believe it. Mean grief. Savagely indignant widows enraged
like queens of the pride disturbed by the funny smell of death.
Seven parts, eclipse. Three parts, leonine. Mix. It’s an elixir
of poetry and madness embodied in the persons of Laila and Majnun.
For mad poets the sun shines at midnight. And the moon.
And it maybe that death is no more
than a pragmatic mystic who has learned to use the silence well.