Tailor

The body is small for your soul,

and if you stretch your brain anymore

you'll drop like rain

weightless ...

no, that's not it ...

A soul is trying to wear a body.

It feels naked and so walks embarrassed and foolish.

But this is appropriate attire here,

no, that isn't how to begin ...

A Soul wanted an outfit for a walk,

the fables of Heaven inspired Him so

that for aeons He labored to weave a cloth

large enough to contain His infinite self

and, after enough time, He figured it out good enough.

He would have to ...

well, you must know.  You are reading this after all.

You have seen all He has made,

how it moves, blossoms, drops, leaps from the water

and all that.  He is that much, such that He is 

also this, we, it, I, she, they, and so forth (in fact,
"He" is just a grammatical convention, a new proper noun
or pronoun might help everyone on Earth out, but for now) --

no subject is He not, no object, no force, no wind,

no order seen nor chaos thereabouts, no star,

nor half cup, no place is too full or vacuous to say

"well, He can't be there".  He can and he is.

Respectfully, stop the foolish skepticism
and blind faithlessness;
it praises the none of the following:
intellect; creativity; wholeness of reality nor its individual parts;
Self and non-self (yours or mine or anyone's);
and just about anything you can,
and everything you cannot, think of.

Any further descriptions ceases to be a poem

and becomes esoteric existential philosophy

and the stuff of boring religious scholars

or the stuff of drug induced highs and coffee shop

conversations between people who feel it

as severely as that mid-life crisis; those deathbed visions;

that sexual awakening that can have you searching so madly

through your own self you, in the end, are torn to bits;

that broke heart so broken it was hard to tell the difference

between which bits where heart and which bits were

that ancient stardust from which He first began to fashion

His suit, to connect his first fabrics ...

You know, He probably dreamed of walking down that winter street

in that city where you went or the beach -- wherever you were when you

had your first suicidal thought, each the place of your deepest, most

desperate aching.  There was the suture, His needling passing through

solid Nothingness, creating the first puncture in T1,
a wormhole in T2 and your very own love-beaten anguished heart in T3,
each of which so many light-years away from each other
it would be hard to argue that they are not, in some way, simultaneous events
if only light weren't so pedestrian crossing such vastness.

That was Him on his first day of seaming,
those were his momentary doubts echoing in you:

"I'll never finish this, I'll never make it," 

and yet there you are

walking Him and his first pain down that street on that beach, wherever,

owning it, claiming it, wanting to feel as He felt and He

wanting to take that walk you are taking.  You were a destination of His.
So humanized by the depth of your pain

that you forget it may not be yours, you even think the moon and the music

were mocking you, that is how lost in your own heart and self you are.

That is precisely what He wanted, the tailor of whom I speak.

We are adornments.
The life that passes before His eyes
when he finally rested, having realized his dream,
having slipped into the dream, too,
as neither substance nor force, nor visible light itself,
but a consciousness through which he is recalled,
searched for, denied, vainly named and rebuilt.

Your suffering made Him.  His, you.  Same with love.

Let us live more. 

That is what He and I always say to each other

these days.  These sacred, very real days.