the blue ceiling's fallen,

all the livelong day the

dead will try to raise it.

so much like sunlight

from the ground up.

one side of the blade is

dumb to the other, unable

to see straight till the cut.

a window has no such

problem...won't need to

sweat blood.

your sight's the filmy

wound of a dream,

which you swab

with moth dust.

a wing beat away

from disintegration.

the sound of

final breath fallen

on deaf ears.

the rite that night

scatters,

bouncing off walls

and windows.

shocked by sudden

brilliancies, seen as

tunneled ends.

As this moon-crested body
lie in its ditch.
Sleep became a poem.
That is, at some point
I became aware of a poem's
presence.
So it superseded composition,
yet still was.
It enveloped the: "I" that calls
himself a poet.
The poem was the basis for me,
not the other way round.
I stirred and sank, flailed about
in barehanded awe...unable
to intellectually loot a ****
thing.
Impressions were words, words
were impressions--"I" couldn't
get in front of its beam of light.
I awoke, and knew beyond a
shadow of a doubt, a poem had
written me...one I'll never be able
to recall.

Starting to emanate a song--
can't say about the 5 W's.
It doesn't belong to me.
It starts in and pushes, pushes
and pushes--till I can't breathe.
To the melody of the way things
gotta be.
I'm lost in composition, it's
far greater than me.
Steadily taking hellos and goodbyes
for all their worth.
It cuts through all these senses in an
attempt to multiply them.
What a song... I'm caving in
to the point of entering a new world.
There's nothing but space, seated on
the ground cross legged.
Riding vibrations that take what they
want.
Till I don't want them to stop, because
there's nothing left.
Only this song at the drop of a head,
as if every note picked a flower.

Love gone wrong's like
air-dropped light dead
to its sun, a retarder
of body language.
Can you read this
decorous purple?
I need you to break
thru, call dibs on my
lone planetary routine.
Then we'll get skin
right, we'll cry about
how good it feels to
attach boundaries.

If you're not the doer--
then how can you sow
karmic seeds?
By believing you're the
doer.