Open Wide Your Steely Mouth And Swallow The Sick-Angel Tapestries In The Burning Labyrinth Poem by Chris Robideaux

What pierce this firmament, O mated with the dust?
Gladness gave his rags back to me,
And my skin easy flows in them, then jars
(Though buzzers be less fatal legion by far
Than this race I must belong to)
And dying August his flame I kept, yes,
In my maundering hearth.
But where my idol creeper and I and lady of late
Go from this wicked and insufferable land
Is an unknown blow, that must.
Where do these vexed and unkempt voices
make new land when language lags?
(Insignificant beards arise now to dash my claims.)
Hooray.
The pleasured mists unmark the fray.
Don’t I, singular, hear a rounded sound?
Tellus whimpers unending earth
In the hollows of such consummate ground.

Through starnaked pastures
Footwheeled, on road-through-acres daycapped,
Slayed by brightness –
Earth, my treasure,
here is where my mortality kneels at the gate.
By breast of bluebird
And hale strike of molting dusk
Do these lavender worlds become
Plumpberry worlds
And perennial orchards vex reality’s flow,
Wearing a fruited crown once laid low.

Do they shimmer? Yes!
Tune into them and they will help you
Obtain your own cosmic shine,
These pearls brilliant, earthen, hidden,
Silent songs of your becoming,
The Terran mask of Gaia’s heavenward steps,
Where we’ve no need of church, bank, or politician.
So, still your mind-mill.
Made so still the night’s continents dissolve.
And listen for your ultimate shining arrival
At the gate of seasons archival,
The you of you knowing true history,
Come to it one instant,
Completing the symphony of your being,
Your entire being salvaged and shot along
The dear axis celestial,
The Universal feast,
Which partakes in your partaking
Where planets’ forests’ flash bright entry
Divorced at long last from infamy
In the breathless light.

8.31.13