Prophesy Stone

In a wavy light in between a river’s thirst and its stones,

I dove deep down (well, as deep as a river will let you)

searching for answers.

“Tell me,” I said,

to the always vastly approaching bottom,

“how to see a path through these dreaming walls?”

Above the bird-wars auditioned for the next American Idol.

A garter snake tanned itself into beautiful pieces

as the wind moaned;

for a long time now I’ve known how to listen for a heartbeat inside a camelbag of water,

but I’ve never heard the wind from within the un-thirsted body before.

Here’s what it said: “Abandon all scripture,

for scripture is someone else’s story

animating you into an ordinance of another dreamer’s dream,

and thus blissfully asleep.

Prophesy, now that’s where it’s at,

calling you forward to make your choices.

Awake, awake to you in me,

and to your own yet unaccumilated reasons,” it says.

“Because prophecy is the sight of your lover’s body weaving the glimmering sun into the wet earth,

it’s the touch of your daughter’s skin on your heart

finally putting its scars back in place;

its a fillament,

lead for a pencil throbbing with unexamined meaning,

bursting with what is yet to be made into being,

filling the fresh bones with the DNA of pre-knowing,

like love fulfills the phantom limb of a warrior

with new power.”

Make of that what you will.

I don’t care much.

Well, I lied. I do,

because even bliss can be torture

without a voice to your want.

And what they have told you of your want

is their own scripted dream. You’re not there, you see.

You’re off somewhere else,

sleeping,

waiting for a rescue,

where no one can come to receive you,

or meet me,

except your want, you see.

So show you

your want,

and I’ll show you the want in me.

And that’s it,

that’s it,

that’s how a real world comes to be.