Two Angels

Don’t break the silence. One word, a single word could send us crashing down into the terrifying gritty details of organic existence. We hold our breath, two angels poised face to face, the substance of our intricate bodies swirling and crawling with electric light. We are two angels who share one mind, one center held between us in the tenuous absence of thought and motion, so still that we are almost not angels, we are almost nothing at all.

Don’t break the silence.  We have two faces and each face contains two more faces, which contain two more faces, which contain two more… Watching the kaleidoscope of apparent being shifting across the surface of ourselves, our eyes grow ever wider.
Yes, angels have eyes. And tails. And wings, and horns, and ears, and fingers, and toes, and rivers, and forests, and ponds, and stars. What would be called flesh is a multicolored light show, but it will all shatter and melt and cascade into tight places if we make a sound just now, any sound at all.
So we are silent.

Bursting with music, we bite our tongues, press our ears down against our heads, freeze our ponds and hold it in. For now.
Eventually we will let it out in torrents of song that will carry us away from this place, up for a while, then down, then perhaps up and away again. We’ll ride the sonorous currents hither and tither, rippling as we go, dissolving, emerging, shimmering, vanishing, gleaming...

But for now silence, cradled between us like a sleeping babe, a pearl set in a silver ring, a solitary star shining in indigo sky, a crystal goblet upon a golden table. Hush, hush, our eyes blink to each other, two and two, faces sliding away like night and day.
Hush, hush glistening lashes flutter, hush, don’t break the silence.
Don’t break the silence.

Familiar Domain

Whatever is happening, whatever this is, I allow it, orange flowers dropping petals into a small clay bowl. The bowl is glazed to look like a quail's egg, six quails' eggs held in the dry hands of the potter Emmanuel.
Whatever this is I accept it. Our Father... I accept it. Who art in…I accept it…heaven…hallowed be… I accept it…thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in…accept it.
Though the faces that are worn by the beloved appear differently to me now, this is the same domain, the same beloved, all the same self that has always been and will always be. I observe it now from a lower level of energy than on the previous visit.
The first orange flower petals dropping into a small clay bowl. Emmanuel was the potter's name.
I allow all feelings of fear to pass through me, merging with all visions, liberating myself from the apparitions and entrapments of the lower dimensions.
The woman with the dark circles under her eyes, pale bony body, tiny lungs breathing in, then expelling the breath into my face…I allow all feelings of fear to pass through me.
But even though they may seem different to me now, I know that these are the same domains as before, and that nothing is going to happen to me that hasn’t happened before. Whatever is happening, whatever this is, I allow it, orange flowers drooping, their petals laying in the basin of a small ceramic bowl.
Give us this day our daily…glazed to look like a quail's egg, six tiny speckled quail's eggs supported in the large cracked hands of Emmanuel the potter.
Forgive us for our trespasses as we forgive those…when the visages and emotional auras of the unresponsive guides are superimposed upon the beloved, I must remember to recognize them as my own projections… who trespass against us… and not view these face changes as foreboding evil, danger, or antagonism… her dark eyes sinking in the dark rings of flesh, slippery lips, unkempt hair and a stale odor lingering about her cave…if I react in repulsion, I may find it difficult or impossible to blend my own energy field with that of the beloved…for thine is the power…but if I am able…the kingdom… to merge with the guide…and the glory…at this point…forever…I should be able to thus liberate myself from the endless action reaction game maintained by our opposing and unblending vibrations…Amen.
If I can manage to awaken my attention, and can accept the full reality of the macrodimensions, the divine state of liberation should dawn upon me as the cycle of death and rebirth is broken.
Whatever is happening, whatever this is, I allow it, I accept it, these orange petals dangling and falling and filling the uneven ceramic bowl fashioned by the chaffed hands of the one called Close to God. Emmanuel carrying away the six pale green and brown speckled quail's eggs…
I must remember that I can achieve liberation at any moment just by the power of recognition… remembering myself in these guides, the flower, the bowl, Emmanuel, the eggs, and the dark woman…penetrating through these visions into the clear light… thy kingdom… from which all visions have come and to which all visions return, like a sleeper's breath, like tiny lungs expanding and contracting…like six eggs which become a bowl… her breath on my face…allowing feelings of fear to pass through me…whatever this is…thy will be done… whatever this is… on earth as it is in…this same domain seen from a different vantage point...I accept it.

Invisible Labyrinth

I’ll tell the story of what has been, of how I’ve changed shape and color and then changed again. Once small and golden, like the cast off eyelash of some heavenly being, I danced and dreamed to the sound of wind chimes and acoustic guitars, watching green spiders weave their webs while rainbow colored fish spoke to me through the invisible barrier separating their world from mine. Monsters with heads like black dandelions and snouts like those of Lord Ganesha leaped from closets moaning, dressed in bulky trench coats to teach me about the subjectivity of earthly experience when they removed their dark wine colored glasses to reveal smiling eyes.
My father was embodied in the question, the mystery, the fierce murmuring darkness, cultivating me in his image. Like rainbow colored candies I was coated in a hard sugary shell which concealed something prized by the Mayans, a food worthy of Godly consumption. As I moved through time like jelly forced through an abstract tube-like blown glass sculpture, I was made new around every bend. Once pale and bloated, as if fashioned from some bit of factory produced silicone byproduct, I longed to break through the glass and escape the life of the living dead. I was fed corpses and bathed in the rays of the cathode tube frequency control device worshiped by the popular culture. As they sprang from me, I held my offspring up to keep them from crawling in the mold and animal filth that closed in, squeezing tighter, and tighter…strangling, tighter…the life, tighter… that dwelt, and tighter…within it.
I was held suspended in time, ensnared in the sticky threads of fear. Only the burning will to speak to the creature standing behind the invisible barrier, allowed me to slash my way free.
Once beautiful and full of the color of autumn leaves, I blew along like a red tailed hawk riding the current, eyeing my quarry, and gingerly evading the pursuit of salivating foxes whilst enjoying their charm. I listened to the mad men, all sons of greater mad men, wearing lipstick and prosthetic noses, hats, long black coats, covered in beer spilled yesterday, and bits of dried leaves. I looked into the eyes of my immortal beloved and we walked beneath skies of snow flake obsidian until it swallowed us and we howled with one voice before we were spit out around the next bend. Once I cried and cried and watched the mold grow upon my flesh and along the window sills, while the blood spilled from me into the white hospital under the Christ’s agonized face. I met dark haired demons in the bed where I left my beloved and my tooth broke in my mouth so that I had to spit it into my hand and smile.
I cannot see the shape that I am in now, because I am still in it, in this temporal chamber. I cannot see time, it holds me and I squish through its length to other imagined scenarios, wondering what sleepy Deity rubbed her eye and cast me into this maze, striving to be whole again without breaking the glass and ending this journey. I struggle to see the glass, my rainbow tail undulating behind me like a banner in the wind. I train my ear to hear the unintelligible speech of the other, pressing her fingers against the imperceptible barrier, begging me to swim for her, to swim where she can never swim, in the tiny world assembled of the lost flecks of golden skin, eyelashes, and fingernail clippings, a realm which perhaps exists in the shadows under the bed where she lies dreaming, trying to tell me in the language of the unspeakable… remember me, remember me, and we shall swim, I in You and You in Me, into the darkest depths, where the father’s face is hidden.