Over The Treetops Of The Dance

I

I stole
the answers
from air.

I would not let them fly
until they showed me
the gateway to the clouds.

They told me the entrance
was an illusion,
but I told them to mind their own business.

There was no separation
in my mind
between my mind and illusion.

And no greater elixir
than the glide from illusion
to delusion.

I knew this was what birds do,
swooping and diving
through the atmosphere of their hopes.

I thanked God
I could enter
and fly there

with
only
a
one-
time
entrance
fee.

II

When I was born,
after I died,
my voice said to me:

I am tired of
the divinity of words,
I want the incantations of air.

I am tired of
the convenience of air,
I want the spirit in my mouth.

I am tired of
the hand-me-downs of the spirit,
I want God to tell me who his parents were.

I am tired of
the genealogy of God,
I want to return to my handspun illusions.

III

Many years have passed
since I stopped hearing voices.
The time and my thoughts have evaporated.

These are the journals of air.
Both you and they will take after their author
and blow away shortly.

But remember,
all ye who pass:
I too, in my time,

called this earth solid
and leant my way across the face of my hopes
towards the Bethlehem of tomorrow.