AVANT SOUL

I. 

Unpacking 

I'm going to take a big suitcase
	 of my sadness
And throw it into the sea

		I'm going to take my regrets,
		Place them in a vast box of emptiness
		And bury the receipts

I'm going to take my paper-cut wounds,
Paint dove wings upon them
And fly them to Alpha Centauri-
(They're having some rummage sales)

		I'm going to take an inventory
	 		of my rages
		Burn them in the center of the sun
		And serve freezing ice juleps
	 		on a blazing summer's day


I'm going to recycle rich details 
	 of my pettiness,
Bless them at Sisters of Mercy,
Plant them in the convent garden
	 with eggshells, coffee grounds & old kugel

So tulips will sprout,
	 chanting  plaintive  plainsong 

I'm going to take that gash in my heart,
Attach it to kites 
	 with buoyant turquoise tails,
Send them flying to faraway stars
And watch the light shine

	 where once there were wounds


		I could cry for the depth 
	 		of each morning
		But afternoon is here, 
	 		grinning with his revelries,
		And the night will soon take me

	 		to his eternal bed


Unpacking, I'm unpacking,
I won't need these bags anymore
Leave them for the maid of the morrow,
Just leave them by the door


Unpacking
I'm unpacking
I'll soon be gone 
Don't need this wretched baggage

Just leave it by the door 



II.

To Death, My Teacher


It's intermission. Come here, darling Death, 
	and be my lover.  Carry me 

...to a place beyond sufferings and furrowed brow,
Beyond vigilance and hesitant summation:
My work's concluded and now I approach celebration.

...I've not been idle. I have not been lax.
I've served my God beloved and am ready at last
To leave desires for achievement behind

...to magnify the beauty I've brought to this world 
That never was mine. 
Work that is past has long been released, 
And if my children are to prosper,
They need reside in renewed hearts & minds. 

Forsooth, I'm weary and am ready to go, to release
This body's brave fortress, to greet the Unknown.

I have my theories. My grandiose schemes,
That these voices I launched into the Void
Might somehow find their abode. 

In truth, I've dreamed and imagined 
That this art
Shall allow beauty to slip more freely into your soul.

If these words have sneaked past the sentries of your eyes,
Forgive me my frivolous delusions of grandeur & ennui.

I hear trumpets, thank God, not kazoos.  Perhaps 
There's hope yet, perhaps it isn't as stark as it seems.

Gentle reader, 
	we hardly know one other, 
And soon I'll be venturing Home....the Far Country 
Summons me. Sweet Death, lift me now 
	from these gaunt ravaged lands
And let me unfold my eternal wings.





III.

Your Soul Has a Wee Bit of Laundry


If I could pour some sort of cosmic bleach
	into your consciousness
Without damaging your favorite clothes or material,
What would you have removed?  

						Tell me now.
 

The Goddess is doing laundry today.

I've tossed broad scale bedsheets into the Whirlpool Galaxy,
Relieving them of unresolved dreams.
I've filtered the sugar-mass of political corn
Into far-fetched, thematic agendas for humankind.
What's on your platform today, President?

Stewards of boundless love beyond earthly limits,
Tell me, in the dawning of day's breaking light
Snaking through branches of trees you have clear-cut,
What toxins & particulates would you have vanish
From the air which once breathed life into your being?

Reveal to me, Sir or Madam, where are the spots 
& old soiled whereabouts which you'd like 
Absolved or dissolved?  I must warn humankind 
That some stains can't be removed without injury to the soul - 
The sorrow was spilled too deep. Or possibly a polyester of delay 
Was left permanently addressed, bedded or blanketed at an abode 
Where your heart no longer belongs yet remains forever rooted.

There are times when, by excavating roots of suffering,
A plant goes into shock and can't survive the unexpected soil
Of love, caring, and praise. Some folks are bonsai
And there's fierce beauty and pride in their stunted shapes
Twisted from ravages of ill-nourishment.
					        
Furthermore, have you reduced rationalization to an artform,
Watered by your repetitious lack of tenderness 
Or absence of carefree laughter? 

					Tell me. You sorry complainer -
 

It's unusual that the Mother of God does laundry on a Sunday -
Or the Sabbath. Currently She is taking a vow of silence
For forty-five days at the Golden Door Health Spa.
I encourage you to take advantage of this rare domestic offer. 

Today, for a minimum fee of your attention 
(and for this moment only), She offers you 
A gentle bleach of revelation
That colorfast shall neither change your essential nature
Nor eliminate anything that ever you could miss. 

Saints be praised! What wooden currencies 
of your personality would you like cleansed - Anger? 
She washes out impatience. She eases away
Pointed thorns of barbarous criticism.

With this phosphate-free white light, the Goddess 
Removes crystallized decades 
	of grime or bad hairdos from berating yourself, 
From lifetimes of self-abuse, or unworthiness 
	from visiting dubious Churches or Salons of Beauty.

Let Her take you for a spin - A win-win situation.

After copious loads of laundry, the Goddess
Holds a mirror of transcendent reality to her face
	and strikes a most reflective pose.

It's been eons since I've had my hair done,
	she states without exaggeration.
Gives me a new outlook on everything -
Jesus Christ! She swears, unladylike.

The Father of Creation needs a manicure,
And a pedicure,
As well. 

Oh hell!

She slam-dunks ringlets of spiraling supernovas,
Her new coiffure highlighted with dwarf suns
And the layering of a few silver streaks of satellites & moons
Billowing and iridescent in an endless indigo sky.

The Goddess throws some filthy galaxies
Into the washing machine. She turns up the heat 
	and firmly presses the curling iron to humanity's soul.