a crumpled napkin

slides across a table.

a golden calf fattens

on a cloudy day.

a propped up flower

reads a Chinese vase

fluently.

so much so, the mountain

it depicts is no longer

woven around villagers

that seek enlightenment.

unconditional as clouds

beaten to wool.

in this welling's

music--seas remain

unparted, there's

no flailing in water's

drowning.

multitudinal calms

have washed over

the look of every

consideration.

fitting perfectly on

distant shores.

the silver

interments in

a bolt of lightning

smoke out a blind

divide.

unstruck between

split eyes that

crack open quicker

than once.

the

silhouette

of

A

bonsai tree...

offers almost

no answer to

its form through

paper-thin panels.

holiness dies up

to itself.

a whole miracle.

a stone

surrounded

by a desert.

is the shape

of wrath

incurred.

the clacking

mouth of a

prophet broken

open.

there is a tree narrow

enough for a wood.

to reap a snow around

indefinition.

the trunk of Her ankle.

holed-up white, with

wind and cessation.

incontrovertible water.

though it appears so.

white.

as impressions shorten their form,

an owl leaves daylight suddenly.

flattening its wings over an Ocean,

all-ways light.

alighting at your window, one

motion free from stillness.

so You can hear the sound contradicted

by the customariness of nothing fathomed.

there's something that worries over

an owl that resurrects daylight on a

crooked limb.

the speed of acceptance deemed late.

the owl was there once...

leaving out everything.

And would you know it?

an owl's downcurved beak smiled

back...reappearing.

falling down lifelessly over branches

that redrew the most vehement disappearances.

when the land has locked its jaw,

and starving recesses fight to get

loose, only the wind breaks free.

blowing away from what froze it

clear, watching January choose a

place to die alone.

rumbling in the pits of wolves'

stomachs, shadowing and shadowed

by the place January chose to die alone.

their darkening magic severe enough

to cast out what it casts--driven on all

fours through trackless acts of disappearance.

the trees see nothing of this, coldly burning

at their own stakes, having been stripped bare...

their congregations sway from time to time.

the fall and the spread of nothing, clear from

the throats of wolves...rising.

a sickly yellow arena, with last-leg effulgence

comes around to their howls, and hangs there

as the pithy of survival.

there's a cold in the

grey outside, perspectively

sectioned off.

its breathy paint keeps

running down and

across frozen surfaces.

there's a window to it,

which drifts--oddly enough

to become two dimensionally

sequestered in walls.

the cavalry of the centaur

composes him, halved lord

of the rush made complete.

a groundswell foresting,

blowing open a canopy.

redhaired variations to the maiden

meeting the charge of her

foliage head on.

the spine of her last change

of color.

parting her fingers on that

forest ground.

the stuffing of clouds

have popped out,

over-clung and ragged

dolls slung over space.

inanimate and sidelong

stares of stopped time,

exhibiting forgetfulness

too gone to lose.

explosions of pindrops

far off, and far into The Now.

similar to abandoning the

keenest mind like an unwanted

pet, tentatively trotting away.

looking back once and a while.

a poem has come through

all the windows, leaving

her mindspaces on the walls.

carrying sensory input to

the degree of birth.

she's so good to those walls,

that they stand up to fall...

a poem of hallways seeing

straight.

leading and led by, floodings

of light echoing feet.

waited for behind every door.

a poem of hallways let in.

Mother, I've a question

for you--as you questioned

me to talk to yourself.

my solitariness shook you

to your core, those nine

months endeavor to teach

You too.

so it was you asked yourself,

your son--why he can be alone

like a madman.

I stepped forward only to reply--

that type of question rubs me

the wrong way.

yours was a plea for company, and

a loving condemnation for he that

avoids it.

wagered of this

sitting, meditation

sits across from me.

staring, unblinking--

through clay, at clay.

there's room to move

there somehow, splinter a

glass timetable with silence.

to timeout seeing.

to mean what you mean,

and know about being there.

something happens that way,

something always happens

that way.

the rain is opening

pieces of light to a

grey sheen.

its gurgle of closing

statements fasten

houses, dividing

distances.

the rain is thinking

of something beyond

wetness...I want to know.

Shiva waxes his

poetic moon, charnel

ground blue.

always coming back

with something to see.

the way the first thing

crept on the last thing

in a single moving.

cresting her horns,

reliving ash.

the way an aura

around anything  is

dispossessed.

then embraced the

way it needs to be.

there's a growth

in all that aloneness

can deem itself.

a companionship

that knows how to

share your kind of

space.

one that just keeps

pouring in, one that

just keeps pouring out.

one that just keeps.

there are rays among

the shaft of continuation,

that beam the whole of the

sun when a flower blooms.

the sun's fires become fragrant,

marriage in its multicolored asking--

doing the honors of taking petaled hands.

this mantra needs

no mouth, fixed honeycomb

cells ooze its sacred syllables.

even if the body is given up--

these amber intonations will

leave sweetness tasting of itself...

between a voiceless rise & fall.

prayer wheels are being

spun by a herd of windhorses,

thundering on all planes.

soothsaying sounds of unbounding

lay of lands, tumult and constant

arrival.

urgency in passing, outrunning

urgency in passing.

glassy eyes wearing the kicks of

hooves and speeded ground...

the herd of wind horses due to

blow through Shangri-La.

whereat they will die down, as

their Heart receives them.