It's the sound of radiation
from a television with no
volume.
Flashes of white rousing
a black sleep...stripped
of image in the depth of
essence.
The heart comes clean
when there's nothing
left...but that which, that
which.

My experience of
you is such, that
you command words
of wisdom to settle
as feathers...
just when your sky's
unsuspecting.

Before
proclaiming
springtime a
religion.
Forgetting the look
of color in wane...
consider the brilliance
of a sand mandala
swept aside by compassionate
hands.

True rise of true
rise, true fall of
true fall...as if
these gave mind
and body the
mythology of
direction.
Afterall, there's
everafter at every
turn.
Gifted a ghostly
long lock, for
good luck and
good measure...
to keep the pneuma
from transmogrifying
stillness.
A silver cord as
brittle in appearance
as the world it
harnesses to experience.
Where release snaps
silver, lightning return
of no return.
Mainline of soundless
music, en-silvering stars...
cord of web and Word.

Laying this head
upon a hillside...
whose nurture
was numberless
bosoms.
How green the
liberties of innocence...
lost in termless growth.
Of whose Age of Joy
could never be qualified.
The yonder yellow of
networking dandelions,
setting sunny precedents.
As raring turtle doves
echo winds that have
already changed.
This season of werewithal,
for the reciprocation
of benediction.

Tapping a
singing bowl
the way guard
dropped is
universally
expressed...
reverberating
off the walls
with the sound
of a bird call
yet to materialize...
just as the sound's
about to dematerialize.

A stimulated atrophy...
wearing winter's
fleshy wistfulness.
Enchantress of
livid reflections.
Scent secreted away
by a breeze of no
origin.