by Lorin Drexler
The broom hand descends—
Yellow paint Streaks along
Forest green Stairs.
The void Artist, extending
Beyond his Usual box,
Reveals oneLinear stripe
As the minion of vision ascends the stairway into the bright orange sky,
The void artist unravels his circle method…
“Not that inside the apple,
That inside the seed.”
A bucket holds globs of paint for the horizon.
Is this how I find god, in visions of apples(?)
I dip the paintbrush in the can.
As I release it from the bucket, magma splashes on the cement…
In such perfect anger
Rises the petal of thy stem, a stranger.
There is depression among all things beside,
In the lotus of thy heart,
A house of thyself resides. We impart;
The first of they who steal from winter,
Is granted as though, at last, a splinter.
And before my dreamt undrudgingly dreamed,
Awoken was I, redeemed:
Dreamt, therefore, Dreamless, behold—
The Waking Dream; for that of Work manifesting creation upon itself.
Give thereof name, charge in ruby or diamond for valiance in namesake…
And once it mirrors
It was this evil—such a lie of humanity:
And there, below the house, yellow in heart—a symbol.
And green, a planet.
And red, for the very depth beyond the veil…
That of these stairs : a house.
That of this house : a street.
That of this street : a town.
And so on and so on : as told, through the universe, in the palm of each.
The unitary asylum at the sensuous desire of God, or better perhaps nature;
An extent beyond corporeal apprehension—
Such of which exalted the first demon to halt in vanity…
And thus, in continence and austerity,
Advanced the God of the broken sky,
Beyond the three states of periphery:
Awakened, Dreaming, Dreamless…
Uncovering a lost diadem.