A Visit To The Tavern

I hear 7 billion victims crying,

'You did this to me!'

Friends, we all wove the 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 keep 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,

tail wings suddenly fanned open to reveal

the scorching beams of your nakedness.

Of course, others only see your green

opaque refraction through dream waters.

Now, untethered by grace, your body 

drifts over the city with its violin, 

broken strings, wingéd donkey,

floating in the jagged violet 

guffaws of negative space. 

You glide among grandmothers,  

making songs of long-forgotten names, 

mouths touching, tongues turning gold 

in the darkness of spent confession,  

while on earth, a young Jewish madman  

paints you, whispering, 'If I use my head, 

almost nothing works; if I use my heart, 

almost everything!'

You wake up just before sunrise,

sleeping it off alone at the bar.

Your wallet is empty.

All you have is a debit card

that expired at the dawn of creation.

But this life doesn't have to be

a trickle of excuses.

Why not speak your single magnificent Word

in a reckless gesture of largess?

Even though you have nothing,

you offer to pick up the tab

for anyone still awake.

The bar tender stifles his tears, 

proclaiming, 'It's on the house!'

Only now do you remember, 

he 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