poem: the new rule

panhala, which sends me poems each weekday, is on holiday hiatus. i'm missing it and maybe you are too, so here's one from rumi. it ties into a rune i drew after sharing a dream sunday with peggy, phyllis, and victoria.

It's the old rule that drunks have to argue and get into fights.
The lover is just as bad. He falls into a hole.
But down in that hole he finds something shining,
worth more than any amount of money or power.

Last night the moon came dropping its clothes in the street.
I took it as a sign to start singing, falling up into the bowl of sky.
The bowl breaks. Everywhere is falling everywhere.
Nothing else to do.
Here's the new rule: break the wineglass, and fall toward the glassblower's breath.

Inside this new love, die.
Your way begins on the other side.
Become the sky.
Take an axe to the prison wall.
Escape.
Walk out like someone suddenly born into color.
Do it now.
You're covered with thick cloud.
Slide out the side. Die, and be quiet.
Quietness is the surest sign that you've died.
Your old life was a frantic running from silence.
The speechless full moon comes out now.
"I used to want buyers for my words.
Now I wish someone would buy me away from words.

I've made a lot of charmingly profound images,
scenes with Abraham, and Abraham's father, Azar,
who was also famous for icons.

I'm so tired of what I've been doing.

Then one image without form came, and I quit.

Look for someone else to tend the shop.
I'm out of the image-making business.

Finally I know the freedom of madness.

A random image arrives.
I scream, "Get out!"
It disintegrates.

Only love.
Only the holder the flag fits into, and wind. No flag. "