FIRE SERMON FOR THE SOLSTICE

  

My Lays Classic Potato Chips are made of fire. 
My Jersey Mike's sub is made of fire.
The mayonnaise and provolone are made of fire.
My bread is made of fire. 
Lips, tongue, belly on fire. 
Buddha was wrong. 
The senses are not on fire with suffering and desire, 
but with ananda.
Only here, on this burnt umber earth,
can I repose in God-Consciousness and savor
such crudities of bliss, a sandwich of bliss, 
a ginger beer, effervescing with bliss.

Nothing happens in this world but fire. 
Nothing happens on the sun, 
nothing happens in the stars, 
nothing happens in the photon of a rose, 
but fire. 
Mountain asters of fire by a frolicking brook of fire 
beneath a sky on fire with blue awareness.

Nothing happens in your eyes, 
nothing happens in my heart, 
but fire. 
We have burned in the fire, 
and the fire has burned in us so long, 
we think this is a world of ordinary things, 
suspiration of snow drops in the meadow, 
alfalfa bending in a summer breeze, 
pulse of moth wing on a blossoming foxglove.

We hear this cilium of fungi splitting a stone 
and think, "Yes, there is cool and shade 
in the crevice between one mushroom and another." 
But this is not a world of things, and there is no other. 
This world is a vanishing, a chimera seen 
in melting glass, the violet after-image 
of a blown-out flame.
This is the work of fire: a fierce dissolving 
gossamer delight between what Is and what Is Not:

Those who only pretend to be awake 
never really mean it when they say, 
"I am not this body." 
They just heard someone in India say that, 
and it sounded like an easy way out. 

We are here to endure the fire 
of embodiment, each quark of mother-matter 
setting us free from the mind.

I am not the witness of my body. 
I am not the Spirit of my body. 
I do not dwell "in" my body at all. 
I Am my body. 
I Am this temple of fire,

starlight so distant it only now 
becomes this breath, and falls into my flesh, 
thrilling my pituitary like a glistening finger. 
An ocean of fire in every cell, I Am
the sun in each electron. 
I leap through the synapse of this thought, 
naked and rejoicing. 
I Am the trembling telomere 
at the tip of a chromosome, 
directing the brain to make my resurrection body 
out of fiery twelfth-dimensional crystals.

I give up, surrender to grace, sink blindly 
into burning darkness. 
"It is a terrible thing to fall into the hands 
of the living God," Hebrews 10:31, 
which means falling into bliss.

I Am created again and again 
by un-created fire.

I Am made of the fire of darkness. 
What burned me away completely, I became.

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