I Michelangelo, was fair game amongst human animalia...
until I latched upon the vault of Heaven.
In light of total Absorption...I betook to throngs of glory--
I became a lidless eye, trillion-handed.
All I beheld for four years unblinkingly, was undrunk paint
from plaster drip off a human form, stretching and stretching
to macrocosmic proportion.
It's as if I were painting through a black hole, poised upon
the whitest of emergence.
As it were, upon that ceiling prior to brushstroke there's only
the black of unrealized vision...ravenous blackbirds at their
feeder--then suddenly, the palms of angels cup them...that
they may eat out of them.
I could hear my name glide through: past/present/future...
for I peopled a Heaven, a Hell's dynamic tension--it was
given that I take it upon myself.
That eyes shall look above and know man is more than man,
woman is more than woman...it was given that I situate Us.
Feature the unending moment of creation as chaos harmonizes
upon this ceiling.
Color is so strange...it's immediately superior to my most
creative application--I become the color I apply, as the outlines
of the forms they take become beautiful illusions.
Naturally I worship the outlines of these forms, but neighboring
forms bleed-in so quickly I experience an ecstatic union...countless
times a day the paintbrush falls from my hand.
To that which I've supposed likeness...likeness I paint--I give you
suspended animation, the non local no time of NOW!
Rome was built in a day--I shrunk it down to an Adam...then split
him!!!

All other seasons usher their expectant Mother--
lay her down, and let her be.
Her's is a great birthing...paean of the eleventh hour.
Air blown lukewarm, honeyed...showers soft as
tears that place the face of growing significance.
Inbreaking rumors of life to be, the exultant charge,
moment of creation split green, thus created to divide
but moment ago where none was.
Early fires of greenery...the irony lost on nothing--
the harshest season precedes the gentlest.
Analogous to the truth of hope, where from the dead
of winter...a flower.
Broken open its color as tangible light, to it--the bee's
figure eight prayer, partaking thereof.
The rampant crisis of consciousness creature to newborn
creature, all immersed in the golden wave of renewal.
It's as if a standing ovation burst in a monastery...
what's been withheld in the making is withheld no more,
Mothered by Spring.

Do wager these untoward
motions--that what errant way
of soul they spend be sanctified.
By God's pin-up sun...whose
overtly apologetic moon shall
bear its skull forever more.
We that reared head...over and
above--shallow and below.
In keeping with us--Coming has
fulfilled itself.
What more to ask the God of our
begetting?
That the thing that God left, is as
God left it...a promise to a promise.
The way of light, way of dark--never
went back on their word, we attest...
infinite and self-congratulatory.
...Let us pray...as we pray in our
keeping, effortlessly so.