An Empyrean Compendium

 “he sees the spiritual everywhere translucent”

-Ferlinghetti

Saint Edith approached each day as a search for God without expectation until she left the earth's surface, or descended under the sea, depending on who you ask.
Saint Luke stayed behind.
Saint Severin cleaved the stone, cured the king, caught on, tuned in, dropped out.

She defined Empyrean “The highest high heaven
supposed by the ancients to house the pure element of fire”
I said “you know what fire does, don't you? It burns.”
They knew. The ancients. You get to close to pleasure and it is pain. The purest square root of pain. The pain that kills saints, you can't have a saint without a martyrdom, can you?
Or does it require a miracle?

Saint Claire was worthy before God.
Saint Cuthbert lived from 634 till 687.
St Helena witnessed the death of the emperor in silence
St Bernard had it ruff.

I said “you get close to pleasure and it is pain.”
She said, of course, “a sadist wouldst frame the equation in the reverse.”
“I prefer not to solve by that route, ma'am. Johnny, show your work.

Now let us all turn to page 4 in our compendium of saints.
The centuries roll back and rise before me like a forest
Darkness tried to move. “The rhythm is gunna get you,” prays St Estefan
As a convert and a fantast one's kisses taste tart-
less like kismet than- dart that tongue- not quiet right is it?
the sudden tumult beneath the surf [and turf]
it's always you, it's always you, it's always

The less said about St Andrew the better.
The kids are losing their heads over Saint Denis.
Saint Lucy, blind and bleeding, bore a bright light in the wicked darkness.

The whole sky reels with imminent dawn.
You came in with coffee and naked perched
on the bed … your arms, your shoulders, your hair...
I felt so happy, less like sex, more like someone with nothing to pretend
“What is it you are contemplating?” she asked.

Saint John wrote 385 Songs in 13 years, a dream that buries lesser men.
Wherefore art thou means where you at, to Saint James.
“For reasons I cannot explain I'm going to Graceland.” sayeth Saint Paul but we were rueful and wet when we checked into the Hotel St Julian in the rain asking “is heaven another haunted mansion?”
There was nothing left to the city 'cept clouds, and anyway it wouldn't be the same anymore,
she said “everything is ruined,” and I shushed her and we squabbled for a long time, mainly squeezing.

Saint Cyril wore an Allfather seal as he inflamed tensions in Alexandria against the Nestorians.
Santa Monica went around behind her husband's back to “pray.”
Saint Francis reflected as the fat silent star crossed thin ice.

Upstairs, a big bearded cherub strums out of tune. Have harp, will pluck.
One looks under the beds on the way out of the room way up in the high-rise and wonders
where they hidin' that pure fire at, boy?
Gosh! Hallowed be thy... #same
Maybe love is sustained delusion. Like any delusional fan, I am in.
First we stretch our hamstrings, then we let go of our ego.

Austere St Eugendus ardently sighs, his clothes were made of sack cloth. Fear is an expression of ignorance.
Saint Anthony kept a shell in his pocket, for luck. Happiness is a winsome path lined with stones. Sharp stones.
When the curtains fall, St Peter at the gates is a fucking monster, a leviathan horror, with16 million followers on twitter.
Desire is a terrible torment. What are you even lookin' for?

San Quentin seems nice this time of year.
Saint Felipe's manifest was confiscated after setting sail from Manila.
Saint Flavian, a blonde, was repeatedly vindicated by Pope Leo, arbiter of Atila, a ginger.
When in doubt, Saint Hegesippus wrote it all down.

But none can retain their individualness. Insular for a moment we all return to the same dust. A cleaning woman ensures the rooms are spotless. Once you've learned your lesson you can take down the motivational quotes, disable the mindfulness app. Change means clean walls and zero notifications. So why do I feel so sad? With sight comes no need for vision. The ink stops flowing on the page and, backed up, blots out the night sky. Why am I falling apart? Once you've metabolized the teaching it leaves you speechless. She read over my shoulder, “Some say dumb.”

Prayer is a game without ceasing, rejoice! sayeth Saint Isaac.
Saint Theresa heard the call and held on, sleeping like a child, higher than the moon.
Saint Brendan the Coward, a strong believer in repetition, was exiled twice, and kept coming back for more.
Saint Louis came back through the white cloud to do it all again.

Last night I built a fire. She laid a rose on the embers. I thought about Vulcan, and man's thievery [of fire] from the Gods. St Lawrence, patron saint of comedians, grilled to death on a spit. I thought about the stories we tell ourselves, the ones that glow from under the secret doors in our hearts and and keep us warm at night. I thought about the story of you and me, its starts and stops elided ever by the through-line … going away.

“But it hurts” he reminded her.
She whispered “lets hurry up and go”