A Visit To Chagall's Tavern

I hear 7 billion victims crying,

'You did this to me!'

Friends, we all wove this web of tears.

No one can untangle it.

Take a break from blaming.

Visit the tavern in your chest.

Haven't you heard of the innkeeper

who doesn't run a tab

of innocence or shame?

He serves the wine that loosens your heart,

unwhirling your eyes from fixed orbits.

This is where angels come to drink after work.

It's the kind of place where you can whisper,

'To hell with it, let's get married!'

So many rings exchanged in silent shadows

between laughter and weeping,

music and desire.

So many peacocks dancing on your table,

their talons dipped in chocolate,

feathers fanning open to reveal

the scorching beams of nakedness.

Others only see your green opaque 

refraction through dream waters.

Now grace untethers your body. 

You drift above the city, clutching 

a violin with broken strings, 

floating with a wingéd donkey 

through jagged spaces of

violet and crimson laughter. 

Gliding among grandmothers,  

you compose a song of forgotten names. 

Mouths touch, tongues turn gold 

in the darkness of spent confession,  

while here on earth, a young 

Jewish madman paints your 

bold ascension, muttering, 

'If I use my head, nothing works; 

 if I use my heart, almost everything!'

Just before sunrise, you awaken,

snoring it off alone at the bar.

Your wallet is empty.

All you have is a debit card

that expired at the dawn of creation.

This life doesn't have to be

a trickle of excuses.

Why not speak your single 

magnificent Word

in a reckless gesture of largess?

Though you have nothing,

you might offer to pick up the check

for those who are still sleeping.

The bar tender stifles his tears, 

whispering, 'It's on the house!'

Only now do you remember, 

the bar tender is your Beloved.

This is your mansion.

You have come home.

So have we all been absent from ourselves.

Image: Jan Molenaer, Tavern of the Crescent Moon 1639