A music that tears
itself from harmony...
a candle flame begging a
a pair of lips, should they
couple...how exquisite
the tears.

The coffered ceilings
of cathedrals hum...
their octagonal scenes
are dreams of extracted
nectar.
I'm reminded of a dead
bee I parted from a
flower...it was already
so much more the bee,
so much more the flower.
Its non-doership loved
to death its doing.

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.

Bleeding buffers,
pressed against
a world that pictures...
ramifying colors--
spidering glass that crackles.
What a beautiful
headdress.
Stasis of newness,
plus and minus the
headiness of years.

Window beaded, raindrops gnashing silvery
white, at core--grey sky in each, each to each
a composite of it.
Room....an abstract memory scheme, dull blocks of
color hanging in there.
Afternoon in the middle of itself, January in the
beginning of itself.
Formative limbo offering both its cheeks, the world
entire taking it up on its offer.
Head bows ever slowly, a religion of one in the making.
Do not doubt there are digestive points strewn throughout
days--whereupon one embodies the throes of all creation.
Thoughts...come and go with a reflective quality whose
tonalities divide and conquer what must be static...for change.

How is it,
tears betray
and absolve
an ocean...
in the span
of a face?

If a soul must have its
night, which it must...
how dark it gather, how
thick it be...what's lived
will tell--to what end?
A directionless break of sound,
as if fled
from silence with a start--
the terrible nausea of having
been, and returning to what
now is, which will be...no
more apparent than the experience of itself, roundly met.
How might a personage bear
the scorn of what means to dissolve
what no longer serves it.
What of life that may be deemed
short, or long...as if never born--
or born to die to what's never been born.
Blind stead, whose dross drapes days in wait of gold.

Now and then,
not to forget when...
there's a feel of four
horsemen neck to
neck, flush with
*******.
Continually crossing
the lines that time
will tell.
To reveal the world
as an individual,
in a war of many...
should a heel be placed
upon good and evil.

How long can
you go without the
need to take away
something from
an experience?

Preludium: as gaps fulfill
their color...
may we be privy
to dream.
From a cornered
eye, freed from
its perfect cut...
true to life, yet not.
A sharp right into
blue.
Its sky slid the
silent take of a red
tail hawk...caught
to the gravity of a limp bird, shrunk by shock.
I sat by, the bird's feathers fell
in countered curls and spins.
Amidst parkland, near a
pitcher's mound...snow
traced its fall the night prior.
The wind blew, and I
swear...snowflakes coupled
with those falling feathers.
What's out of sight is always
gentle--what sees is carried
away.