Uradiance

My religion is  walking barefoot  in wet moss unnaming the stars. Every religion got started this way, invented by a five-year-old at the edge of a meadow. On the first warm day of Spring, after days of late Winter rain, when the sky melts into pools of cobalt, rivers of amber  you could wade up to your knees in, I follow the Rx of doctor robin: “Take seven sunbeams, then see how you feel.” Standing nowhere special (anywhere is sacred)  I inhale the fallen grace of April, mud squished through my toes,  the holiest  anointing, a loam-gush from below, lean back, guzzling body beams of star-breath through my forehead, down the perineum, out my naked soles: I Am  the sun’s hollow path. My skin exudes the fire, therefore sprouts tremble with nectar,  braiding birth and death,  green-umber in thirsty pastures. Every cell of dust inhales the golden sea. I Am the fifth element. Infinitesimal benevolent bacteria...

 

      “Be ye perfect, even as your heavenly father is perfect.” ~Mat 5:48 A life-coach told me, "you're perfect right now." I tried it for a day and got completely bored. After all, God is already God, but who would be Me if I didn't keep fucking things up in my own peculiar way? My blemishes define me, jagged edges are the letters of my true name. Call me Broken Buddha, the Half-Awake. This universe just wouldn't be the same without my sins. I’m more priceless uncut, mud-covered, a ruby mistaken for a berry in a crow’s beak, that gem of surprise! Here's the sign of progress: I'm even less perfect now than I was yesterday. I dedicate this poem to you, my dear, who discovered the hot mess of your own precious body on the kitchen floor slobbering your tears into the linoleum while Good Morning America bled out in the living room. I honor the unconditional catastrophe of your hair, ...