Wings set adrift for a tomorrow that worries
for itself.
Wind's plaything whose opulence restores all
retiring worlds.
As if thought perfected down to its wire connects
and disconnects freely the Whole.
Pointedly that Whole knows of itself, and as yet to
know of itself--that lapse that furthers vision in a
flash.
By all soothing shadows that swim hardboiled things...
resigned amongst the transit of other things,
partaking thereby becoming...momentarily.
The welcome home of thing unto itself whose shadowy
screen blew about a holy commune, bows now to its
place to know of it, as an angelic head superseding
gravity.
By blood geared below the surface lapping feverishly...
till a luminosity assays flesh.
Strange the way, The Way is lit...in an instant a world
forgoes itself without changing its heading.
Lone and left to, what's lone and left to...for what
profits an eternity but that which must attain it.

Isn't it fun excising polarities
just to watch them wiggle back
toward one another?
Their vortical tumble intellectually
hybridized so a "school of thought"
can advertise perverse stimulation.
Imagine if Yin were told when to
kiss Yang, and how deeply...
with no Unifying eye contact to
consummate their vision.
Thought...Now...is dead...not God--
as the parts of their Sum have been
called Home in regard to misidentification.

The forgotten bedrock gleams...surrendering
crowns deep in majesty.
As breath comes and goes freely...what of
your fashioned cage?
Your multiplying extremities by mind's might
to touch the untouchable...allows religiosity of
fragmentation.
******* recalls of salvation...coasting still lifes
who blackened an etheric sea.
Seven Days in, and Seven Days out...clockwise/
counterclockwise, a Black and White Hole.
God of thy God in doses...whose meager One
be death at Once.
In the subtlety of trillionth aspect a clearing
may resolve as it were...what's point blank stands
as you Are.

Known, let it be--of sight inhaling the fragrance
of roses...of touch hearing the impactful sounds
of stones sacramentally tasted.
The senses shall be as misappropriated goods
in an open air market--coveted by a Singularity
that shall bore the away.
By blameless necessitation what sense, took its
turn of sense...called upon by a thoroughgoing
life.
That life solemnly sworn to solidified places of
light--whose need of need, aggrieves not its
reversion to light, but shines upon flesh's folding.
As every burden reaches for its reason, reaching
what's unburdened by virtue that reach.
As Virgil guided Dante through the dark wood,
he was once guided to offer guidance, the
unbreakable watchfulness of crossing paths.
Of guides, there are many--untold many, that the
idea of emptiness, at any given moment is merely
an interchangeability from fullness...ebulliently so.
The senses shall be as misappropriated goods
in an open air market--coveted by a Singularity
that shall bore them away.

...Portend for the life of you--cast your
eyes as far from you, as what you could
not see coming otherwise.
A living through and through...of what
came first--word or sound, sound or word?
These spaces...spendthrift pages that are
but doorways to their impending figure,
wind coiling at its corners...coiling at its
corners.
As a thing grows into itself invisibly...
as so you fall the falling curtain--with no
audience at one side, nor actors upon the
other.
Irrevocably you are, that you are--sun
halved, golden bowls burning--of good and
evil--a miscellany saint's evocation...that
you are, irrevocably you are...amaranthine.
Gesticulating beyond time, times, and half
time...a procession of one whose sojourn
repeats upon itself.
A heaven ago...hell now...a hell ago--
heaven now, change knows all your names--
and because you withstood all it can ever
be, it holds them steadfastly.
Amaranthine...irrevocably you are...that
you are.
You, the faces of disambiguation--whose
seal you smile to open...with full marks
for bravery.

There are moments when
consciousness softly
overspreads
the body...
helping it
away
from
obstruction.