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.

~The mindless premiere

of a

tropic-colored

inwardness,

reaching...

a handful may

transfigure

a crowd of atoms...

with the

dear life of it All~

I Am the burning candle of my
own vigil.
The night of my ignorance is
long...though hope lie beyond
me, I Am not beyond it.
My center is perfect, my
circumference is boundless
freedom.
What needs knowing shall be
known, what needs forgetting
shall be forgotten...there is
absolutely no hurry.
There's no time to be bidden,
only this timeless vigil burning
in degrees of clarity.

Aureole...Manna's descent like showering
waveforms.
Eyes hungering...upturned, cloven in rapture.
Mouth slants open in a salivary click--
come the incantations...come the
anatomical sway of microcosm.
Intergalactic cynosure, pariah, shaman--
mangy interloper teaching wind to dance!
Tamer of the subconscious...mender of schism!
Anathema to Gaia's Satanic Stewards!
To be sought in the House of Aquarius,
haunting its foundation that it may uphold.
The roads to and fro are as anagrams that
alter with the perceiver.
It is the second look, of what's cross with
what Is...and ever shall be--that gives rise
to disorientation...reincarnation.
O grant dancer of self-evidence, grant your
sundry incantations... yearning for Gaia's heart
of hearts.

The fog shall not lift...sapphire, ruby,
emerald studded chimeras roam the
primordial soup.
The hysterical triad of a bleating goat,
lion's roar, dragon's inflamed screech.
The implacable lot of sublime vision...
reels the shadow of a halo.
The shadow of what's opaque...an
ominous drumbeat of the collective
unconscious.
Pagan hybrid...chimera--sulphurous
manacle of delirium, pomp and glory
of madness.
Releasing opiates within the plush
chambers of your Gaian skull.
Lunar stone's throw to quashing tides...
bone-fetching chimeras 'neath their
moonlit charge at flesh.
Chimeras, no mere inhabitants of an
exotic petting zoo...pattering the early
puddles which became The Face of the
Deep.

The only thing
impervious to
to death & decay,
is inner space...
remain there.

As every direction goes on for good...
so one can stop and notice the
directionless--
desire needs plenty of room.
There's no placing this world,
it refuses comparison...as
all-we-know informs all-we-know.
Fiercely independent, this towering
light, this towering dark,
that bathes our private corner
of understanding...
premonitions of peace when nothing
comes to light but Light.

many have come before me--

as i have come before many,

and i have seen what needed

seeing.

as they have seen what needed

seeing.

i'm no judge of that which

light hits...what it falls upon

with the courage of morning.

yet some seeing is undeniable--

the way a flower can feel itself

even though it's blinded by the sun.

where it Knows it truly Loves...

and is Loved.

~The  way  things  change
imperceptibly...
may  not  be  distinct
from  a  phenomenal  rate
of  change...
the  same  river  is
running  toward  the  Ocean,
yet  has  reached  it.
This  is  why  nothing  can
truly  be  Known  but
Love~

the
ones
i love
drip slowly.
when out
of Water.
each drop
takes the
sun's heart
away.
for reflecting
what's
up of
down.

Formless words...broadcast scribbling space, their diagram
of poetic motion washes over you...formed on impact.
Dark room's glow in broad daylight--your fully developed
picture...deepest blue of two worlds in one, betwixt vibration.
Hue of the canonized, twanging entire a cloudless sky...
enriched tenfold in mimicry of you.
If only stained glass and silk would wed, search light's
spectrum...distill the most affecting gradation of blue--
then would you see a just replica?
Visionary's shield...where earthen wend unveils the abysmal...
that eyes may remain upon you--till one is ferried, and
vision seen through.
Apogee of seventh sea...epicenter of dancing Nine Muses,
whose round keeps the Blue Flower earthbound.
Blue Flower of the poet's pilgrimage, whose synesthesia
electrifies.
Blue Flower...a nebula pinned to earth, the name of spring
born of you.
The golden section of angels fly their flawless form to you...
that High Art may pray to High Art.
...Blue Flower, commended spirit rife with grace...whose
ceaseless hour at hand holds beauty alone.
Mind, quill to tongue riven--if ever...ever is now--Blue Flower...
ever is Now!
The words of this poet have begun fasting...not to eat of what
they cannot sacrifice...their Blue Flower.

Sunlit water...angelic morse code--
non local, supercharged.
Where undulant ripple, at an angle,
sun at its angle, flashed sparks of
double exposure.
Frenetically shifting focal points,
suffusing an animated luminosity.
A one dimensional constellation
clustered en mass, optic tempo of
ebb and flow.
Sonogram of amorphous light,
whose: white, yellow, green, blue--
integrated auric stipple seemingly
pulled skyward.
Death neared whilst thee afoot...
at second attention the soul's
wrenched from the animal...
transmission complete.

Tufted ethereality, angelism of stock and store
pedestrian...alas, circusy.
Helm of streets bob...our supplicant pulls out
a mile or two of scripture from an enormous
pocket.
Fingers ink-blotted with grime, bent forth striding--
a heedless Beethoven tuned in immaculately.
Array's arrival stunned with scurry...planets of
conveyance pull at their elliptical wiring.
Some rare gigantism to the tenth of powers has
touched everything...all he could do from
going where he's arrived is futile.
From time immemorial, he...at present, its full
possessor!
What convoluted theorem of probability will
forcibly eject him from eureka...from where he's
vaporized his wears...naught...naught!
Some precipice's nudge knew best the wind for
his thought to take to, a majestic soar pealing the
spheres to show them their shape.
Life has exemplified its frugal capacity to him--
simmering creation tucked away for one fine day.
He, to outlive the closing energy that dances him,
an immortal...to be handled with care...with
universal intelligence--be, has let him...loosed.
He's broken the code of things in and of themselves...
he's a thing in and of himself--the Unitative factor erupts.
As the credits of glory pull upward...so he as them.

Across the earth
hearts are beating...
red-mime of no-time
simultaneity.
Body-galaxy to
bodhi-galaxy...space
enough for ecstasy.

Breath is never
baited, its sea has
already parted.
In its place a mountain
stands, a man lain across
its peak.
There exposed, what bone
may box a breast,  O dear Mother--
never off kilter.
Therefrom a thread so gold, marrow
met skin, up and away...
a steady pull by the tail end
of an angel.
Relative as the bent forefront of love's law,
where all reunion leaves no remnant.
To find a faith so becoming, space leaves
room for space verging on itself.
How blue the pearl, how circular
the sky of its sea...how golden grows
the thread that breaks with every breath.

"Coming up on emptiness straight
ahead"...(you say to yourself)--
strange...the driver and driven
to point out emptiness.
Where does it begin, where does
it end?
Mind like a windshield illumined
by headlights...hellbent on
demystifying emptiness--plying
the road's will toward a name, and
a place.
Night...dark...emptiness behaving
as a metaphysical digestive system--
driver asking: "where to?"...
passenger answering: "straight ahead."
This could go on forever can't it?
Mind like a windshield illumined by
headlights...hellbent on demystifying
emptiness--plying the road's will
toward a name, and a place.
Note to Self: the driver, and the driven
are one.

Protectress...manna, Luna, vulvic-veil,

my heinous highness, take this kiss upon

your forehead and crown.

Tinctured lips, paired pilgrims of our alchemy...

surmounted mount in tantric trust, the perfect

fit for this Age.

We watched each other's will hatch in the palms

of our hands...forgetting to argue who came first.

The rightful bliss of essential ignorance, world

manifest under our noses--roused by smelling salts

from intermittent faints...Love, Love, Love!

You, dearest of whomsoever came forth from innumerable

bodies, to be half-turn to my half-turn...round our world

on its head.

Bar to bar none axes...one string guitars from pole to pole--

played ****** by our fingers.

Corollas of red droplets...the poppies are everywhere, the

child you bore me was me--forcing me to man abandonment.

Caught at the lip of a curb ramp, I hurl handfuls of folly

skyward...as pieces of absence continually settle time.

I apply you to my proportion...Vitruvian Man versed in

your space, circle squared dear--circle squared...the poppies

are everywhere.

Broken down to simplest things, I lay you down, I lay me

down...try both sides of the bed where neither is met.

Just as I cease to exist, I-ness nets a sense of being, bolting

upright as if hearing the world fall.

We who observed continuous excellency of soul, stood

juxtaposed in extemporaneous awe.

How could I expel you, how could you expel me...from

such a juxtaposition?

The "invisible worm" brings tidings of forever before it

destroys the flower...the poppies are everywhere.

These inherent sounds
pitch...they're
wound round
the husk of
a song...
till it gives.
As clouds impress
a sky.

As stars uncuffed from

their silver circuit...speeding

off into a legendary openness,

to long live a single look

of no return...

man o man, woman o woman.

I'm an idiot...without being
self-deprecating, Socratic, or
sensational--I state this.
My intelligence is Everywhere...
but that very intelligence
refuses vehemently to be
in vogue.
When I hoard the intelligence
which is Everywhere...I
somehow lose it...I become
an idiot.
I'm reminded of what is
effortless...therefore True.

...Away...
the full-bodied overran spiritedly
its cup--
fetched in movements, musical.
Impress of eyes laved
by their transpiration...
as that daylong Star that
trembles the hills--
where from in plain you come.
Sole proponent of emergence,
enfleshed pathway...
inherit thy haunts.
Whereupon lightning forks
its thunder...as a
joyous weeping dances
the thirsting rose...
the heart of the matter,
thusly enfleshed pathways
meet.

Distilled concourse, the deep black sheep of space itself...
pin-pricked with breathing holes that burst light.
Everything lives inside its head...stars, star as proof
positive of other mentation.
Serenade their indelible station with Unknowing-Knowing...
mantric mothering.
Victors of the immaterial thumbtacking grayest matter.
Unshaken eyes cast for seership...voids swath and drown
in trying to connect them.
There you are...a starry entelechy...revelatory
inky night lo Light, showering your outer eyes instantaneously.
Beaming up an effigy of your earthly clay--encasing you in
the experimental color coursing  a bubble greater than
a galaxy.
A supernova radiating your inner eyes.

All or nothing...is our
growth template--
no matter how great
the escape...
humanity is not just
a word.

waves always feel like
a long time coming.
tide high as nirvana
breaks down at eye level,
on the feet of boulders.
clusters of bubbles popping--
one by one as joy screaming
underwater.
to let out the imperturbable
truth, remaining silent on
what was first to last.
further out, the rims of waves
destined for the same, are
darkened by schooling fish.

Narrower than anticipation...
and wider than its
happened hour,
otherness for day...
trailed by specificity.
Where the path may
be the breakage
of the heart, and
the step that mends it.

Sunlight rushed on your talons
as receding seawater...
the sand quickened black...
fine tuning stars.
Over-majesty...horizon's
scream vowed to silence,
~High on Light~
your crazy outburst of flight.
Weighing on air--
blank with groundless view...
spirit-sifted.
Solitary to the degree of
divine feedback...
moment to motion....
motion to moment,
perfectly still and air born.
A pounding and liberating
heart thousands of
feet above...
for below.
Feathers refined by fires
too dear to see...
more akin to what experience
Knows of itself.
Entire languages contained
in mere words...
that seem to be unsaid
in the saying.
You're the White bedside
vigil of life to death.
The Narrow Way
narrowed to nonentity...
till nothing was in vain,
and such became Suchness.
Love's love of being gave
your being...
as simply and fully.
Ashes to ashes, you fell
from a wayward sky...
a wiry Cruciform trembled
beside you as if on a
projection screen.
Perhaps to symbolize
you could go on forever flying...
or close your eyes and go on
forever in the here and now.
You are the stuff of dreams...
as I Am...
I don't know what else to call
you, but Eagle-man...
may you sleep deeper
than sleep
upon a purple
cloud.


*Based on a being I saw in a dream years ago...I tried to
put the being's essence into words.

Soft as sight
where peace lies...
and breezes part
with the gift of space...
life by name caves in.
Moments lose count
while pouring nectar...
one must swear they
are there, just to remain
in body.

As ever shall be, the endearment
of the unread...lain sleepless in astral catalepsy.
Fevered forever in seeing, as by the
absence of occupancy--the life of
light lives its pass through and
through.
Absorbed wholly, spoken for by a
silence too great to repeat...
yet tacitly repeating.

When life
leans in to
get a better
look at you,
what feels
violating
transforms
into acceptance.

All other seasons usher their expectant Mother--
lay her down, and let her be.
Her's is a great birthing...paean of the eleventh hour.
Air blown lukewarm, honeyed...showers soft as
tears that place the face of growing significance.
Inbreaking rumors of life to be, the exultant charge,
moment of creation split green, thus created to divide
but moment ago where none was.
Early fires of greenery...the irony lost on nothing--
the harshest season precedes the gentlest.
Analogous to the truth of hope, where from the dead
of winter...a flower.
Broken open its color as tangible light, to it--the bee's
figure eight prayer, partaking thereof.
The rampant crisis of consciousness creature to newborn
creature, all immersed in the golden wave of renewal.
It's as if a standing ovation burst in a monastery...
what's been withheld in the making is withheld no more,
Mothered by Spring.