the First

If the world were to begin,

It would be here

The dark opening through blue eyes

Swallowing everything,

hungry legs tender pulling,

Guiding light into the world

Bright light without beginning.

In the beginning there were words

And then light

And only afterwards a source.

Here, now, the fount, the mother lives

Gasping under me, I see it now,

The source of all, every meaning hidden deep

In the way your buttocks quivers,

The way your pelvis reaches out to kiss me,

The way as you rise up,

lips reach over themselves

Crawling up my neck, drinking dew,

Raining manna, sucking up and silent.

There is no beginning to understanding

The beautiful poems your fingers trace

Stretching and cracking, singing

With the breath which comes as you come,

And goes only like feet stepping down on the path up the mountain.

But I am beginning to see you

For what you are

You unfolding

You crazy arc

You hoarse whisper

You screamer and pounder and slapper

You rider

You human being animal being.

Beginnings are hardest, for the card and concept never align.

The spine of the moment is never clean

Never carrying its own weight.

There were moments where hardness was hardest

And the only respite for my lost, faceless soul

Was the home you opened up for me.

And so it goes with the first poem,

Already over itself, shapeless assertion at its voice and master.

Your eyes open, spilling darkness from the primordial something

And your legs are slick as a tongue and just so never still

Like the ocean rising up to greet me

And then falling with me, taking me down.

This is something beyond beginning,

Though I never leave it behind,

Though I never reach home*:

Inside, filling you and full of you

And no more than a child

With weeping, with trembling,

With no image, nor shield, nor image upon the shield for protection

With No sense of what I is

This feels like a reason to write songs, of which let this be the first,

This feels like the stuff of the earth, the source,

The reason we are here.