Caravanserai

Caravanserai

I arrive at lodges after long journeys across landscapes and the stakes of emotions, wearing blisters on my ankles, hands worn smooth by the wind and roughened by years of spine making physical labor, carrying satchels filled with letters smeared with honey and fresh notions, articles of clothing hand made, tailored shoes, carved totems envelopes of spices, an infinite supply of lamp oil and firelight, jars filled with the soil and seeds of years of traversing continents and cultures of the Earth, sometimes with my head in the skies

and a sharp, compassionate gleam in my eye

they call that an old fashioned in some countries, but it's just one of the ways we make the time for each other

human divinity cloaked in sweet supple skin: the water of me

beauty + precision + softness + my heart radiant not only with language + body made lean through steadiness, ritual, laxity and athletic pleasure, intimate smoldering beauty, slow steady burn of coals

and some evenings, my mind is a holy house there's room for all of you

freaks, winos, and storytellers, the gamblers, dealers, aristocrats and bums, the dreamers who don't know they're dreaming, the vagabonds, nomads and sparrowhanded djinn, the circus clowns, for whom laughter is a currency worth it's suga the conquistadors, assassins and pioneers drenched in salt...or coin...or 'KingdomQueendom Come' (but don't be fooled, love that adrenalindrenchedNow) the poets who have no poetry left in them except for the wonder of their breath, (which is what poetry is, anyway) and the scholars slender wristed from existing mostly in tomes the painters wandering new streets in fresh cities, in summertime the dancers live in canyons, deserts, swamps and mountain ranges, else wrapped in the multihued cloaks and clitterclatter of cities

primal magicians and blood witches, glassblowers who weave with fine air, the women who ride stallions bareback, natives who let their horses run free, tribal civilizations, who know to be in tune with Nature is to be in tune with Reality,

the woman you know who stepped on a landmine and stripped for a living; she makes a fortune, just like the Photographer devoted to Beauty in a pair of combat boots,

and those lovers who yanked some of the planets out of orbit so they would have an hors d'ouerve to dine on at night?

once the tobacco smoke dissipates

you'll smell the pheromones; the body electric, the body heavy with memories, the body light with forgetting, or remembering

the body ecstatic, the spirit ecstatic,

and as I come to my senses once more, after supreme bouts of drunkeness, where ceaseless chatter grows like moss and mulch in the cobblestones,

and as I come to my senses once more, directing the ark of my multihued soul racing through the continents by grace of musculature + exuberance

to sing songs and place orchids in the chests and mouths

of the acrobats and artisans of welcoming, to you who haul up champagne in crafted casks from the Oceanfloor

lovers, yogis, fakirs, warriors, royals and airship pilots waving silk flags, the alchemists of powdered vibrant stones, those appreciators of silence

rampant bubbling babble that makes you come hard and feel at ease

do you know what it means to sculpt a ruby?

to be unafraid of psychic nakedness?

to converse musically through the ages,

octaves of the colours of rain's bow?

ask the jewelry makers who've got skin in the game in the name, heart polished by subtlety, mind by shining directness, treasure houses of metaphor laid bare of their veils

ask the incense burners, lace weavers, carpenters, bell makers, bookmakers

the dancers who hear the music and you,

my love,

so decadently sturdy, with champagne cascading down your shoulders and the coarseness of a life of experience, the softness of euphoric smoothness, a love which deepens the breath with sensuous wild, roaming roots, and a refined nature lived with loves true presence, perfumes and

illuminated sweat

Way of the Ineffable Voyage : Way of the Caravanserai of Real