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The Short Way Home - a poetry blog

Saturday

Jill Cooper

Blink, we are here.

Blink, we are there. I am

but a star, of a star, becoming a star.

 

Intent is the shooting star,

who remembers itself

on the way to the next glory

 

A seagull's diction is both

of this world and of it's origin

the seagull is emanating

 

always his translucence, density both

part of the many stories we weave around

our oxford commas, our goals, our nows

 

So many nows

So many stories

So many overlapping stories

 

Tell them through the cells and electrons,

tell them well, because they will live forever,

they already lived forever

 

you are off the clock!

because there are not minutes

Rest, like you got off work and

there is no more to do

 

except to live, because

you are still here, being

emanating, dancing your mimes

 

sweeping bread crumbs

for the dying rooster

with joy in your heart,

with tears in your blood

 

remembering your origins

takes the focus of a disciplined monk

or, the delight of a kicked off shoe

 

the strength of deep pools of

eyes, so long waiting

or, the raunch of neglecting a pet

 

and then it comes and the

emanating is a petitioned thing

you are not afraid to dance about

 

You are brave enough to say

that your fighting had it's purpose

which was to end your fighting,

to find

 

ever lost, your favorite toy,

your other sock, your man or woman

your ego, your watch, your wings,

 

the wings that live in your electrons

like tips that skim lightly

on the whole affair

 

and break it out into

days, month, and ages,

first boyfriends, first jobs

 

first hate, first drilling down

deep into your paper brains

with a jackhammer at church

 

or in the lines of a book before

the thrumming of truth

came to you on the back

 

of a golden beetle

of a long love letter

of a coffee filter

of your love's  hand

 

that wasn't still enough.

because how can truth be enough

when it leaves you standing

there with your streets of

 

gold and mansions awaiting

and praises in chorale

permaculture heaven?

 

There is not then and there,

and later and tomorrow, and

yesterday, though you walk through

 

 time's foggy fun and games,

the curtains drawn for

your personal string quartet

 

the dying rooster, the skip skip

of a wheel and the rotation

in your mind, in the circling

 

satellite of minds grandest

plans and ideas and screams

from moms who are giving up

 

way too soon, and even her

giving up is a holy offering

like the contents

 

found in a little boy's pockets

plastic, living, dead, replicas,

shine, fluff and grime

 

all glory in that as when

the time it seems to take

 to break the cast of attitude

 

and wing it

wing it better than last time

or worse and dive in again

 

Be with the seagulls fighting

and say that's just what seagulls do

we can choose that till

 

that lonely, moment when you

can't choose that and your tea suddenly

tastes like benediction

 

and fulcrum and everything

crumbled into a forever lasting

now, call it joy if you can still

 

use that word through the

tingling bliss of it all

through the freedom and sadness

 

of watching your jealousies

pile up together on one corner of the

room like dust bunnies

 

attracted by the real way out of

here, so fragile and easy

to ignore, or let them go

 

all molecules and messages

from your clothes and the other sock

just vibrating with a fuzzy plexus

 

of your most important stories

Stories make the world

or do they?

 

Stories are not your definition

your outline, your launch pad,

your recipe, not even your teachers

 

Let them vanish for one day, and feel

 

the inside of your skull and tongue and

glands and cells and deep deep deep to

the blood without end to the real edges of you

 

that stars that are watching through your blood

and loving the way you choose to find

everything out

 

to begin your slow-dance with god

to begin to sparkle with fearlessness

and to keep asking all the while

What is this?

 

still loving the way he walks, your satellite

of hearts and carbons and gardens, you snoop

around the multiverse now, finally and watch

 

It all gather into fires, and flies and clocks that

fluff up gray and light into some corner

of the grand room and you squeal

 

with delight up and out from your vast

throttle,  like a seagull feels, momentarily

limitlessness, when it seizes height and dies

 

and doesn't die because it was never

born but intended itself into flock

and practice and bodiliness.

 

Let this star ring through you.

Let your tardiness aver  fresh

let your shaking tears not feel

 

so good they scare you away from

the sacred hot, dry, desert joy

where you find the door to finally

 

come on in. Invited. As you are.

always, with that bird on your shoulder,

with that lack of focus, with that

beautiful painting in your messenger bag

 

with that diary written on feathers,

with that waiting keeping you

broken down, refining your points

making you, carving you, loving you

 

come in with all that clutter and mess

and story and dance, and heart

split right open

 

What if it never ends?

No rest at the end?

What if you are of a long everlasting

dream? What will you make then?

 

What if everything is allowed.

What if you feel your soft landing

return into the morning body

(the one in which you currently tenant)

 

What if, like blood being a moment, you

feel your moments being love, you

feel your love being food, stars, ink

 

Feel your love being dance

feel your dance on the banks

where your freedom laps around

 

your precious ankles and cools your feet

shakes out what's broken

(nothings every broken)

 

 What if you feel your emanation

from origin and where you

are going and where you have always been.

 

Okay, now come on.

Bring this story around to orchards

and the ball sinking into the basket and awe

at the coral wall under water, the orgasmic gasp,

and the scream of the baby when

 

she emerges from between mama

thighs in blood and stars and into the

plane of tiny things like clocks

mountains.  just for scale

 

let's bring it around in circles to

guitar strings and olives and

penises and vaginas,

 

cute outfits, and good harvest years,

ungiving partners, sorry cable companies,

unpainted masterpieces, malls

 

let's go in there together

and untie it, unleash it, unchain it all

will use a little magic too

 

finally, till your blood

in these circles knows how to quiver

in its work and be bone-still in its playing

and exhausted to the core by its boundless bliss

 

and know that you were free

all along

 

--Jill Cooper

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