The Day I Went to Visit the Body of Santa Caterina in Bologna

Today they tell me the door will be open!


On the Friday dream road we levitate down the Corona of Via Tagliapietre.

They tell us today the door will be open.

Air molecules dream float
Before the iris of your sky eyes.
As pistachio gelato, we melt before you.
Holy one.
Such sweetness effluvia exudes from us

as this is what churches do
choking us in divinity, nausea and frankincense.

We are the bubbles you would blow as a child.
We are the formless worms
boring into your body when they took you away

and sat you right where you sit now
in front of me.

We are here.
We fly before you
after 100s of years
Of searching.
We heard the door was open on a Friday.

We weren’t just passing by.

We stalked you.
We followed you.
To look upon you.

We howl for your holiness.

Santa Caterina, you and your flesh of brown and black.

In black we are holy.

Did they ever tell you that white skin turns black upon death?

Such a great equalizer is this death door
that opens

to let in air
to dry our white lied skin
of perfection so they say,
into the brown black beauty that we all are!

We are all one and the same in blood and bone

and your tears are red.
Your hands are pink.
The relics are silver
and our eyes speak
to the moon.
Invoke the sky.
The earth,
like you, we are brown, pardo,
parched, and leathered, ancient
and tired in this mortal mess we humans make.

A black lady in a gold room with treasures dusted dreaming of

Blood orange red exploding creamsicles of time.
Before me we saw your photo as children.
In the dreamtime noon mothers holding us back.
We saw you fly by us like water droplets,
spraying us no one believed us when we said:

There is a black lady of such beauty in the sky.

She looks like the FLYING NUN.

My dreams were white
lights hanging down with candle wax
Heavy from the century of grand basilicas,

Weighed down with centuries of mistakes.

The grotta, the chiesa, the giardino of marble moments draping la tomba…

In the vapour of the moment,
The door opened
and senor took me by the arm.
Here!  Come here, she is here!

She wants to look at you!

Tapestry moth mouths opened
fly by, fascinated by visiters to
this cold crypt of sanctity,
For who are you here for?

Who can you heal, help howl for?

For the crying man outside from Lampadusa
that needs a pair of shoes?  Selling socks to make enough for some bread tonight.

The masses and masses of men who have nothing and no where to go?

You door is open?

Standing on the steps waiting.

The saint site for everyone
but not for this crying man?

The saint in vapour.
The saint in the space of moths.
And pouches of pupae and insects
they don’t want you to see
seething underneath the remnants of bone
and sapphire stones disrupted in the corrupted
Body of the saint.

Think of the lives that are being saved
right now underneath this rotted sheath
in her bones, in her remnants, life lives
behind this glass.

She has not rotted.
She has not corrupted.
She has not compromised.

That is what they tell you.

The secret door in the wall
Will let you know if you are allowed
To bestow your eyes upon her..

The secret door will open
and you will see.

Your skin like a velvet farm animal
eaten, mauled by a dog and left hidden in straw for 2 centuries.

We are here to see you
and your fermented leather lamb flesh.

Senor screams to me in a whisper:
She wants to look into your eyes!
Look into her eyes!
Oh she sees you, she sees you!

Your arms, your legs sit there for centuries

What do you really see?

In me?

In any of us marked humans?

My mistakes?

My mess?

My mortality of meaninglessness while tourists

eat and buy and drape in jewels and splendor and denial?

They said you loved the poor, you held the babies in your arms, you wrote on the spiritual weapons against evil.

Brown decaying lady lost in a time dome.

What can I believe before me on this marooned isthmus in Bologna?

Look at us, we are nothing
but air in the membrane of a cocoon of breath
blow us a kiss if you can and there we go.  Look how fine the silk is
of our breath fogging up your glass case.

Who are you

for the 100’s of black men waiting outside the church looking for hope and bread and a path out of misery?

I wish the saint can walk out from under this precious glass
casing that keeps her from doing her job.

She could be out there, comforting these beings.
sewing from the webs of spiders that keep her contained in this place, she could feed with her
breath the hungry and the homeless, the miserable and crying men.

Doing the job of a saint.

You sit behind glass.

Look into her eyes she sees you.

You sit upright.

Look at her.

Let her look at you.

And let her out.
Let her fly back into the sky!

On this day I dream of the Santa
with the skin of the lost lamb
and the breath of a million moths.
Opening the door to free herself
and the poor and the lost,
the miserable and the decayed!

Breathing  the misery and the despair
inside her, consuming it, healing it, holding it

transforming it…

and spitting out the droplets of
dazzle shimmering wings upon
the sleeping men on marble stairs like jesus bending down

to comfort his mother

Their hope is inside the Santa now!

Let her spin her magic.
today the door is open!
Today the door is open!

She wants to see you.

She wants to free you.

She wants to heal you.

She wants to embrace you.

Doing what a saint should be doing.

The Door is open, come in.

I will hold you, for today.

For today.

and you will be free.

Flying.  Forever.

Check out her master work:
Treatise on the Seven Spiritual Weapons Necessary for Spiritual Warfare

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