A river is aware
of its course...
wise to the ways
of water.

Shiva's pillar

of fire upholds--

what cannot fly

upward, fall

downward to

exhaust it.

nor can it be

gone around.

Mangled skirmish, of bespeckled olive-green
serpents.
Their sinuous anarchy runs cold upon her
skull.
Caravaggio, you immortalized the *****,
immured her, hermetically sealed her within
that shield.
Her reflection was at once the face she
never saw...******, she...then beheaded.
I notice you've even painted the shield the
color of her serpentine locks.
Serpents registering her ontological shock--
retentive, entwining, dangling in an odd
curl here and there.
Blood spurting from her almost indiscernible
neck, as if to draw a passable neck of blood,
almost like rays of blood, Christ's pierced side.
Her eyes seem so determined to chisel their
way out of stone, reconnect her head to her
body.
Her face is stunning, an excruciating ferocity
bulking stiff, slightly opened mouth about to...
explode out of her eyes.
Eyes hissing downward, sideways--there in the
pitch black glint of them...a primordial drama
to be continued.

You can't comb
what's already
breached
you...
diamonds
finding
diamonds
in the
rough.
~Amitabha~

Ophelia...smote egress, you are Rimbaud's:
"Drunken Boat".
The river you fell asleep upon found you a sea.
Your bones knew no seabed--poppies, marigolds,
orchids, black roses fill your eye sockets, mouth and rib cage.
You substantiate what color the sea may give your lay.
Its foamy waddle has signaled you to one too many
climes...an orison broke open.
What strain of tragedy now holds you, spine on depth,
eye sockets on sky?
You dove headlong into the Shakespearean maelstrom--
where mortal coil confounds, chin-up darling.
Great winds fish-scale your waters, only to invert their maw.
There are lines daily of sea's breadth, whereupon its
creatures come single file to kiss your bone.
Ophelia...wrested from river to sanguine sea, shedding trails
of flesh.
If bones were the eye of a needle...you've pulled through,
heir to tragedy--circumnavigating your infamy.

Pi~lated by Pontius to an undisclosed location--
we traded presence, as the fruits of labor.
Half-eaten...the ratty dark-lets of our pits--
eyed forms of survival.
You the better for, I the better for...with our
overgrown estates of separation--(spare us the
indignity)...never!
We were made for this, weren't we?
Who got in front of a beam of light first--you or I...
seems like something I would have done--nonetheless,
therefrom the race.
More naked than two millennia of winter...whoa,
aye--glory baby, glory!
Eye contacting eyes...in and out, out and in, sheets
bathed in volumes of water.
We tried to ****** one another in a fit of passion...
so what.
A passion that swore responsibility for whatever it
may, or may not do...so what.
I was the burning mascot of your dormitory for
three and a half years, illegally--sharing a single bed,
cultivating my poetry.
You Adam-ed me...I Eve-ed you--we watched the apple
go red, we both bit--chewing it to the core, mouth to mouth.
As our jaws tired, we noticed the poppies everywhere...
the poppies are everywhere, we cried!
Black, covetous mass, black--sleep bedding sleep, closing
skies--opening grounds.
The poppies are everywhere--we began to horde grace,
deadpan our burial grounds in plain view, something
went amiss.
We played with frames, instead of obliterating the de-vice...
for faces lost in time, adoration.
Where's the reserve to suffer this rich knowledge--everywhere
is your womb, all-seeing and blind!
The poppies are everywhere...I pose upon the ground--
offer tragic gestures, feel me!
No, it all must be exhausted--human genius must be bested,
made the fool--it must be so.
Air after air of convincibility booted--left, right and center stage.
Clay in cold light, natural of its own...that's what we should want
for one another, shouldn't it...how?
We wanting more, as someone we may never know--let alone
one another.
Take that light, and work it to forgiveness, that is possible I
believe...the poppies wink.
Funny thing though...one of the two shall work far less for that
forgiveness, nearly not at all--******* inequity!
No...the schema's perfect--karma's debt, as served, perfect.
Stay in that truth, but the Truth is too big...the poppies are everywhere.
My head wraps around it like a whirling dervish--though no planet
dizzies...this is no matter of intellect but Heart.
The butterfly that's pinned--becomes the pinhead...spare me!
If I am she, and she is me...as one and all, who spares who--from
what and why...the poppies pock affirmatively.

There's no sullying its consternation of him in her,
her in him.
A downy black of exquisite precaution...pops its
ruffled heretofore and floats.
As if a night cocked back its neck to calculate the
trauma, longingly poised as a swivel of mottled
blood.
The black swan's eyes fork some bygone coruscation
to their very top...as if in the throes of demonic rapture.
Whereby reality's moments of lucidity seem to catch
frozen frames in want of editing.
Thereupon...as there it is, as there it goes...the black
swan subsumes, wears the guise of regal unnaturalness.
A betokened freak loosed...loosed...so...softly, at
maximum indifference...O black swan.

How is it you
drew this small
crowd of flowers...
a bouquet once
sunrays apart?

I appear, you appear...
where's the choice in this?
My appearance is projected
onto you, your appearance
is projected onto me...
where's the choice in this?
That which is Beyond
picking and choosing
has already made its choice.
If it is in your heart to remain
with that Choice...then...remain
with it, dutifully disappear.
Why obstruct the only peace?

Lo, the drunken ordinance of light through
stained glass, lest to rehash the peopled
white of infinity.
Reach...with what folding passion second
guesses the labor of its love...the warm
footfalls of the sun overlaying the intricacy
of a snowflake...as captions of bone
dissolving upon the motion picture.
Perpetually opening seasons enamored
directionless...cancellation and activation
which is The Spark upon dark...striations
of dreams upon the gyres of galaxies.
Proofs positive of palpable breath, given
and taken in gloried passage.
The cloistered ghost gifted the laughability
of its cloister.
A polish fit for heresy...listen to the
crystalline structure as it bats its eyelashes.

As the moon
undergoes phases
of darkness...
it turns both cheeks.
Becoming
fully enlightened
by the sun.

...Here a man stands accused--the pellucid jury
of his peers come to themselves in their life's arms
through him.
He wails upright...a shadow continent wedging
The Flood.
Timekeeping horseflies besmirch his chest cavity
with due kisses...par for par movements consume
time till the singular advocacy of he withstood.
The imperturbable essence captured itself, as so
at the height of its powers there's interplay.
Ease culled from tribulation...countenance slackened
by degrees...overwhelmed by awareness.
Kingdom come Kingdom--shoring space of grace
that is freedom.
As if Everything centering of itself, fawning over itself...
polar opposites in conjugal bliss.
Here a man stands accused...of being--fit for steely
juxtaposition...the murderous implement of will, or
salvation.
Envision him post-Flood, waist-deep, the living Face
of the Deep...look upon him!
Timekeeping horseflies besmirching his chest cavity
with due kisses...par for par movements consuming
time till the Singular advocacy of thee...look upon
him!
An encounter of pitless ramification: fear or love...be
it the last man upon the earth.
Look upon him--O jury of his peers boasting billions...
pellucid unto one another...look...The Hour is radiant!
Won't thee come to thine life's arms through him?
For he is Everyman.

...You, dearest vagary, aplomb--were
brought to bear.
Vicissitude of memory which is the
dispersion of identity.
Of a time, and of a place--you, a
mellifluous bronze dusk poured upon
a meadow, a solitary immersion, a
moment that harnesses the whole of
the earth, as you are...dearest vagary.
You were afforded as by the citizenry
of the air, lent by an intercontinental
wind.
An undying eloquence featured for all
time--the swaying bud blown to bloom.
You...the beautification of possibility,
its matrices never left in want.
As in withstanding place the round is
made, and remade about you, the whole
of the earth.
Thus, you've no confounding words...
have you?
Thus, this sidelong expenditure that you may--
shall breach the earth you shall.

~Inside...
chirping Light outside--
strung shapes that flower...
round the neck
of the guru:
...Now~

Gilded Light's iron visage--wormhole rider...
cosmic switch breaker.
Restoring Lacyrma Christi in fell swoop...
decorated to Seventh Sun, heart of Heart's
medallion.
Distilled justice, pure in action to all its
vitals...sword sharpened by thin air.
Resounding honorary--there, anywhere--
when dark tips the balance...off with what
head before eye may blink.
A wrathful entry, a peaceful exit...there is
no Art of War but through him.
Archangel Michael, giver and taker of fear...
stores Satan's eyes in his own...to
perpetually unnerve him.
Dragonslayer to the degree dragons appear
as lush foliage all the way to Heaven,
cut down...plummeting to an entrail
darkening with sleep.

Abandon's  clay roiled, doubled what pulse
of life...in tune and out of.
Pathological music derived from music...
ecstasy--whose recompense is a sound
loss of selves.
Multiform unto archetypal gods--Dionysus
first among, Apollo last among...eviscerated,
trophied, slathered upon these rotund
Grecian ladies and gentleman.
Hallowed names depart the incontinent
circle, forgone the synoptical scarlet lettering
of name...transcendence.
Torrent upon torrent of ambrosia down the
throat...skyward runoff of chins...scribbled
down the primordial bloom of ******.
O sylvan gathering, crowns of laurel graduate
thee from materiality...a shuddering
beauteousness--broke shafts of light clash
lovingly from luminous head to head.
Here...the extenuating circumstance of
consciousness appropriated quoad sacra.

Peace draws itself out...leaving an
informed emptiness in its wake.
As light leaves room for everything...
what is let be, comes to itself.
Peaces draws itself out...leaving an
informed emptiness in its wake--
a flowering beyond namesake.
As anything can be renamed, any
shape altered...light...in peace,  transfigures.
Dormancy's wayshowing can not be
filled with anything but itself...peace
beyond body and mind.

Truth enamored of itself...based upon
the forever following.
Flow's entrails--the
seven circuit labyrinth pends the
recollection that yielded it.
Thus, the unsound voice pouring
voicelessness.
Minotaur's digestive sound bite.
Where Once, as only Once allotted
the victor of Truth.
As told, as held...now confounds
with a self-fabricating prophesier,
profaning all telling.
Disconsolate swipes of emotion
make and remake the barren.
Pray tell the lessening visage of thee,
where by and by shall deem thee
bygone.

Leaving off where other things
begin...seems to insure a
re-invitation to that leaving
off.
Space wearing itself...relishing
in what forgot to check itself.

There's something to be unsaid
of becoming a nonevent...where
the Truth be told by light's third
person.

The naked trees
wore contoured
sunshine, as the
wind wondered
perfectly at them.
Then there came
a sense of seasons,
of surviving seasons--
watching them...calling
them by name.
This is a privilege,
to survive a cycle, and
call it by name.
To call them seasons
seems softer than cycles...
more long drawn.
Though, the fidelity of
their force is far beyond
our being seasoned.
We should not forget
that we're being watched
by a greater cycle, a
greater season.
Perspective is the luxury
afforded levels of consciousness...
forget-me-nots of wisdom.