My joy goes out flowing
My joy goes out flowing,
into the streets down going
dripping like paint onto sidewalks.
Color and noise go singing.
My joy goes out flowing
achingly at midnight
in breathless gratitude
in glad tears; water blesses;
blinding realization; this
really is happening,
the waking dream,
the secret I can’t tell.
Your joy goes out flowing
in your words and laughter,
cups of tea and coffee – sweet
mocha, making babies, marking
years with friends and revolutions,
mocking idols and building
temples to time in the tide;
your joy lights the world.
Sing out! You virgin princesses,
to your smiling handsome beaux.
You hard working human,
steady of hand and purpose,
you striking a name into history,
to those living the good death
and the artisans of life, mes flâneurs,
mon magicien des mots, et tous vos fleurs,
and the listeners through the crack in the wall,
battling through time to learn our language,
and you mothers and will be mothers,
the chimera and the faithful father,
the yet birthless,
and the nation of the dead –
sing out! Your love
is the sun rising through darkness
and its ecstatic departure to the west –
is the tumultuous triumph playing
day and night through sumptuous air –
is true love and the beautiful truth,
the soul standing upright in naked glory –
is the first miracle and last hope,
the magic pulsing through the world –
is the meter of my joy outgoing
down flowing to the streets of Los Angeles –
(this small moment of dreamy wakefulness
guesses, if I didn’t know better, swears
that all things shall be whole. The pieces
of the tower torn to all corners reassemble:
glass remolding
whispers like fairy feet)
it’s only life, and life is sweet.
Jesus and the Deep Fat Fryer
With little, the many will feed.
Thank God, we got the wine.
Jesus brought a deep fat fryer
to the party, where everybody’s
done working, call it resting, talking
about getting by and the high
cost of living: whose body
in the honest bread is
sending visions; it
feeds the mind
(the soul follows)
out of its hibernating
wilderness
into its limitlessness –
Jesus’s in the kitchen,
kickin’ it,
like you do
loving up a meal.
A kind lady with
love in her eyes
is playing guitar,
and nobody’s got no hang ups,
but somehow everybody’s cool.
There will be only truthful kisses tonight,
and tomorrow and tomorrow – whatever
we have sits like a bubble between
our lips – so, baby, maybe, it’s
least remarkable of all miracles,
complicated but real:
no need to be afraid.
There really is enough
to feed every gnawing hunger,
soothe all that festers, bless
and lesson. The party’s over.
Jesus and his lady went home
with the fryer, leaving oil traces
and lots of leftovers to go round.
Read about Jesus Toast.
mindofvero 