Orator

Orator

Why are you sitting on the floor?

I didn’t answer, I hung up the phone, grabbed the white sheet off the bed, bent down on knees and hands before the priests of long ago religions, I grabbed the whiteness folded it flat on the floor,

shaped into a triangle,

I fell,

placed my eyes closer to the fine threads of cotton,

I circled smoked chimneys of British houses with extras
installed for less taxes, I held the crucifix of the Irish brothers,

propagated to revolutionary bread walks,

I dragged my hair and pulled it to the Persian sun, looking for Rumi,

but the hieroglyphic perceptions of pagan North American lights dimmed my seeing,

and the phone rang again,

again I sat on the floor ,

and poured the paints of Pollock into splotches of color before my table,

sitting in the shades of greyed living in me,

Are you off the floor?

tranquility knocking me over and I sat with the peasants of the French and British class system,

I heard Joan of Arc’s last call,

“Rouen! Rouen! Must I die here? Ah, Rouen, I fear you will have to suffer for my death!”

within the lines of my face,

I shook with the pain of love’s relentless torments of past I could not walk among,

I heard the Druids walking with messaged stones across fields of harvest,

I heard their feet dragging behind me, the stones placed in the openings of lightness,

the phone rang again,

Are you off the floor?

time pushed through my legs in numbness,

they fell under me,

I stood up, and my legs moved,

I ran,
I ran,
I ran,

to the preordained states of the orator,

I didn’t want to be in

clouded fields opened across phone lines,

the voice entered and the release of joy disseminated into the many lives within the physical state,

And the phone rang,

Are you on the floor?

 

 

Photo Credit

Photo by Melinda Cochrane – All Rights Reserved

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