the bliss molds

the bliss molds

i pull the

pliable paraffin

into pretty requests

and pleading restitutions

and call it prayer.

i barely can tear

enough of myself

away to allow the

the Imeasurable

to fill my small cup.

i look for the gap

like a crack in the floor boards

one that I will slip

my intentions into

like a secret lovers note

or a drip of water

into the cell of the prisoner.

they say it is the space between thoughts,

but my thoughts loop around

like a mobius strip

of never ending names and labels

i listen to them,

acknowledge them and try

to find the place where i can jump in

like double dutch

on a black top

but i've always been clumsy

and the sounds of the slapping

have become too rhythmic to interrupt

"words are molds,

 the consciousness which flows through them

 fills these molds with living substance"

ernest holmes

I fall into the sanctuary of

of my favorite form

and the spaces that contain them

I finger through them like

plaids and paisleys in a thrift store

until i find the ones that

fit me like the life I'm creating

the ones that look like

a new epiphany on each page

the stars on a night when the moon is shy

smiling eyes at a compliment bestowed

graceful fingertips tracing circles on your back

I think

if  I can hold them,

fully convinced that

they will be filled with living substance,

eventually i will be dancing

in a room lit with ceramic sculptures

of bliss.

i say ceramic only to note the glistening

tan of the clay freshly glazed from the kiln,

not because they are solid.

because nothing is solid.

we are all movement,

constant cause and consequence.

it is in the losing of the small self,

that we find the molds of bliss.

the contact with not infinity

but the infinite,

the delightful invitation

how does it get any better than this?

i pull the

pliable paraffin

into pretty requests

and pleading restitutions

and call it prayer

and i am answered with this.