Knives

Rise and Shine, ya'll... We're making love with knives! Newly hewn silver pressed to rough stone, possessed potential, unpolished metal. How we use our gifts remains to be made. Creation.

You show me your blade and I'll show you mine. Pause to test edge to thumb flesh, letting the light play in golden tongues across skin. A slivered reflection, pattern of sky and branch dance across your eyes. Come play with me! Lunge and parry, now with left, again to the right, en gaurde! Celebration. This is the way we inspire, stoking fires, stroking blades. Sssk sssk sssk.

These hands too sharp to hold caress, for there are daggers in my palms; skin splitting like cloud by striking light of a jaccob's ladder. Revealed; my star-gift smoldering in the forge. How did I come to burn so fierce? How is it that I am part of this... crumbling stone, decades of creeping root, tone and rant intermixing, this Great Mystery? How is it that we come to possess, to be possessed of the life-craft, in a twisting dance of molecules, spinning entropy. Perfection.

I wet the stone with these tears, years of agony let flow, let go, worked passion through calloused fingertips. Sharpening, honing in solitary. Everyday returning to resume my watch. Listening, learning the art of carrying rain to temper the flames. Coal smoldering, incensed by breath, I sculpt, cast and hammer in the dusky smoke. Challenging self to self.

What happened to the night hours? Whisked away by rivers of whipering dawn upon my eyelids that won't let me sleep. So I rise again, unhinged and blissed out on this love game, this knife play, a sword dance, the flickering flame-fine point of staying truly present.

I present myself to you: stripped down to sound, collapsing around me- inarticulate. Brought through the gate of evermore, this precipice of mind, scored shoreline unfolds to me. Truth writ in slow waves, the language of quiet. Verse of the Samurai. Ripening fields wave recognition of hard work, words crafted in arbutus bloom and steel kept silken by constant vigilance of tarnish.

Some nights the point presses sharp to our throats, burning blood flown too close to the surface. We scream and rage, leviathan of mind writhing knots, promising blade turned on ourselves in the dark. Please friend, stay thy hand; you are needed in this battle field life. Your knife-flame of creation inspires me. Weilding lantern for each other and sword sheathed for tonight, we can stay company through dawn, then return to take up arms for the constant song, Wolf following Raven's call.

I will meet you here; hunting self through hallowed wood, spear firm and true, en-riddled with runes that study me. Passed back through leathered hands, through the wise old sands, and rocks of wave-eaten land, we have arrived at this moment. It is Perfect.

I'm telling you, it gets easier all the time, once you start weaving your way. You are Spider building language, gathering soul family, warrior's strands of synchrodestiny, and spirit comes to listen back to you.

And as I fine-tune my craft, finding the balance point, sharpening, honing, letting go of the burrs of judgement, I shine brighter all the time in hopes that when you hear the whisper of me at work it will inspire you to take up your blade, forged of fire and earth, take the time to fight the dying dawn with me. Ssk sssk sssk. Rise and shine, we're making love with knives.

5/8/08