Along the Wayless Way

These days, I have been dying,

now, lying prostrate on the ground
with the sound of drums around me,
dream-working the lucid body
with a hawk hand, and heart pierced by the sun.
I have lived a corpse life,
the rotting stink of my mind
unraveling the rope tied ‘round my heart.
“Too small! Too small!
Feather the soul with thy raven wings!”

Lightening strikes the heart,
(Not for the first time.)
leaps to the altar above my head,
opening everything with a flash
and crack of thundering light.
The body     shakes     with life.

I am six years ago again
prostrate on the floor
breathing my last breaths of death
and rising to a bed under the window,
listening to the trees whisper
secrets demanded to be told,
and my old flesh stretched across a
tattooed shaman’s drum.
He gave me a name,
placed me in the tall fire
crowded by invisible faces;
tattooed my heart with honeyed ink.
After, I lived from soul to mouth,
the fire in my head
branching at last into the world.
It burned a hole straight through.

These days, I have been dying,
heart crying blood through skin,
lying prostrate on the ground
with the sound of drums
pounding to the pulse around me.
The shaman grins from ear to ear.
What he does is who I am
when I am lying humble prostrate on the earth.
They came to me in waking sleep
tattooing my heart with life;
I am now forever walking naked
to its bright and sovereign center.

You will meet me on my way,
a humble beggar
having cast myself to the wind and weather.
I know the shy deer tracks
that light the beacon in your heart.
And we will walk together, hand in hand
singing secretless songs
along the wayless way.