when the prayer

barrier's lifted,

you wander into...

answer Yourself.

happening Now.

far beyond, far

closer than desire

or aversion.

the open arms

of The View,

took in the mountaintop--

and sat it down anew.

i called you more

than my own--

made

one creeping thing.

if only to stand

for a battery of

self-examinations.

honors in hate,

honors in love,

and all that stands

between.

i have seen where

the blind are led.

reified paradox.

what came before

The Fall.

The Height.

neither letting up

to touch down.

turned away by a gatekeeper

that kept mumbling: it is finished.

his undulant motions shadowed

the valley, and wore down his

features.

so that the mind may seize upon

itself, and cast deeply hid images--

i wanted to spit in his face.

he had no right to utter such finality,

all the while barring my passage.

by the fires that cook what stones have

bludgeoned, i went at him with all

that's finished...

ugly dolled up--

a good quiet cry, eyes squeezed

shut.

pretend makes it go away--

sweet sociopathic denial.

misshapen rancor, not a word

spoken of it, only haggard

hobblings, and gutless mouthings.

that cross the T of the tale.

fresh white sheets thrown over a corpse

that plays dead, while the heart

bleeds through.

a truly artful stain.

chasing light like Monet

upon a landscaped

nondifferential

mind-palette.

as the winter solstice

finalizes the shifty

tonalities of its monochromatic

black.

entering

Rothko's Chapel.

with boyish abandon i reached in and

captured the still small voice.

put it in a glass jar.

it didn't bang a white noise drum.

instead--it captured unmarred clarity.

now i was as much in the jar as observing it.

while yet another still small voice subsequently

grew.

since then i've amassed a vast collection of

glass jars.

stocking up for the Winter of winters,

where i'll get to hear the real sound of

my voice.

oddly enough many flies have undergone fits

of insanity--caught in the crosshairs of this

bizarre magic.

atoms are

akin to lies--

if cut open,

empty inside.

contractive shells

afraid of the

whole truth.

if ever you find yourself

lost in a Messiah Complex...

hit the ground as if in a fire

and crawl.

till you smell the freshly

pinched **** of the earth...

reviving and fertile as it is.

if only because--you are not

what you think you are.

how could you be?

with the flourish

of a Renaissance

countenance,

oily glossed in an

ambiguous heaven--

hell cultivates the

dynamic tension.

settling dust, specks

of blood and beleaguered

bowls of fruit.

a buxom cow tangled

in silk sheets holier

than thou.

ever opportune and

confronting.

pausing at the farthest

exit point of freer

freedom.

slowly turning around

to heft my planet--half

dizzy with collateral

colors yet dreamt.

self imposed master

of exile, streaming live

like choppy seas with

untold shadows currently

watching.

diving down to the bottoms

of those seas to retrieve my

shimmering eyes.

i can already

taste the light

that will break

my heart at death.

what it is to say

goodbye to everything

at once.

even worms recoil

and crust in their

beds of moist soil--

sensing what flies

by night in their

lightless confine.

as birds leave traceless

truths upon the cuffed

enfoldment of their nook.

when morning breaks

open what has spread her

thin--her fingertips work

birds off the edge of the world.

where they produce voices...

it's a wonder the things they say.

it's always come to

this...

even when memory

doesn't play at

faithful servant.

something holds

what can't hold

it together.

love changes the

same hands.

Maria Callas shatters

a Pyramid of Giza

size stack of wine glasses...

as the audience open

their mouths wide to

mimic her.

there was this guitar picker

who'd dress in an all black suit

everytime a thunderstorm

would make a move on his

bones.

he'd lean against a lamppost--

fedora tipped down, and

play the same old song.

until the bones in his guitar

were picked out.

hands thrown up in

an affirming hallelujah--

hundredth devil syndrome

of idle no time.

a single syncopating harp string--

hoplessly blurring a romantic's

note.

cases of curiosity, the casualties

of morbid fascination on

display.

poetic admission fee: no one

shows if no one sees.

impossibilities seem

to wait for me at windows

like long lost loves.

as if their forms were dependent

upon first sight of me--to throw

all their weight in my arms.

almost like when the sign of the cross

is made in the air, an explosion occurs

whence those lines cross.

there i am, entrusted to the movement

of mountains--but i'm a bit tired.

just looking for somewhere to lay it down.

the angel of justice

has her blindfold

loosed, and drawn

across her eyes.

while appearing to be

firmly affixed.

it's involved enough

to pull off the illusion

while keeping it on.

balanced scales have

already freed her.

a gust-plastered

leaf remains stuck

to the screen.

it resembles an elephant's

freckled tusk.

the sun glows its

seasonal lastly.

it's very much an art

piece.

i will leave it there till

it falls off.

caught my beloved bird

preying, red tail hawk.

the rich olive green

underbelly of the Whitestone

Bridge offered up a glimpse

of a twofer.

redtail with a pigeon in toe--

a solitary feather whirled down

from the appreciably wide

crossbeam.

no more feathers fell down--

only that redtail going in.

watching it dip up and down ,

somewhere along the line

learning to dismember its prey

within that obscuring crossbeam.

from other birds of prey.

words are funny

things--like people.

multi meaning and

read into.

sort of like the saying:

all Cretans are liars.

though sometimes

the literal sense takes

mercy, like saying:

it's not all about you--

leave my poems out

of it.

sugar glazed serpents

and candy apples--

foliate rustlings

and sweet fangs.

nakedness taking

cover.

not knowing why.

the coast is not clear--

no use tip toeing

like a mouse on sheets

of ice, to melt thru with

a dare-to-breathe

breath.

a rogue wave of love

repeatedly crashes.

as starfish constellate

salty hands.

aurora praises of a clown's

bouquet tossed

once freshly cut and

gathered.

unceremoniously swift

as dying color--

full of the fragrant

receiving end.

permenant as unwashable

makeup.

this morning's long and slender

pianist fingers alight on keys

that space light with sounds

that permeate an unreachable

dwelling.

neverending room to room--

blue blind Father Sky holding

a newborn ghost while feeling

the dimensions of its head.

sexless fontanel granting Father Sky

sight.

the karmic record

of you be-spinned--

till arthritic and achy.

Buddha pops a *****,

sliding in.

good on the music of

satisfied parties.

as the sky tugged its

blanket war, and a bridge

met ways over water that

shall not be named.

i beared with birds, ****...

watching them open a distance

as fly it.

form in the purest balance of the

disappearing act.

a body, maybe yours...shifts

itself from a witnessing position.

taken with an almost unbearable

comfort.

at a confluence

of rivers, water

suddenly opened

its eyes.

sight still amid

the flow.

stripped down to the spine--

vocable blood banging between

your ears.

thing placing person.

skipping feet backwards on water.

atmospheric like the sounds of early

cinema.

death at every meditational attempt--

equanimous loss at gainsay enlightenment.

sure you stand for something--but you're

never fulfilled.

until you are, until you simply are not.

any longer.

you see...when you become It--

you're left out of It as much as you're

let in It.

if i say: I'm not myself--

i laugh myself off the

corners of a mirror.

then thank something

or other for the

everchanging.

with a ferocious

vehemence, clear as

water and electricity.

duirnal vector--

hard grays evincing

chalky white tracings

of tree limbs, redrawing

a season's circle.

dancing off till danced in.

last dangling leaves of thread

through fallings.

ghost of the ghost network.

even when one thing doesn't

follow another--

it's still about survival,

they get so desperate when

their mouths fill up with

seawater.

forgetting to gurgle and

cleanse their mouths.

a liar can't float or sink,

the weak will continue to

look one another in the eye

to spot what's dead.

fear is a shore easily reached--

like thinking you can touch

down anywhere in the ocean at

all times.

get a foot on something when the

the sky goes out, and the water

comes over.

no--there are always those for that,

don't worry...hahaha~

Lucky Luciano's lazy eye

in the sky--

daring his city to double cross

him.

sure ******* thing--which rat

******* you got?

spit the odds like a kick to the

teeth, think like a kick to the

head.

or lay there with a bloodied

ace of spades in your

hand like Joe Masseria.

the fix is in.

a glass ocean meeting a mountain--

dead of the night discordant pitch

of thorough breakage.

tinkling shards in whirlpools slicing

and splintering in spiraling inundation--

toy like vessels sunk, what could not

float the tonnage of drowning sound.

cargo of guts bust open, miles long tangled round

those vessels, wrapped tight for the ride down.

Beethoven's defiant deathbed fist clashing

with lightning, thundering blows--the

mass exodus composition of an unbreakable

spirit.

******* The Face of The Deep that voids

eyes at will--to behold its own!

nothing is in vain, even when beset with

such vanity!

the colder air has begun breaking

open the patternized flights of birds

like stones.

against what?

above a land of leaves in toppling

rotations--skirting along the second

wind of ground, how the breathless

rises.

that which stares at the sky intently

enough to trade places, with all

it's burried--knows what it takes for

snow to fall.

if there's an exactness to a moment, prior

to its occasion, that can be seen beforehand--

fitting perfectly into a long time come now.

it's here, chilling fingertips that reach for

warmth, or opt for exposure.

rusty dusks

leave twinges

of sunlight that

may not lift from

where they lie again.

shadowed corpus

growing late to rise--

the psudeonymn

of the last stranger.

revealing what was

so perfectly hid away--

delivered by the cost of

articulation.

bared--that's all, who's to

say?

as no one can see what that

bareness saw.

there's a tremble at the edge of

every which world--as one and none

gathered round a fire spits snowy

sparks.

into skies that pass on skies--same

yet different in eyes made single.

swearing to no end that you are here--

set down to look up.

clear as the cold draft of magic--spelling

words.

doorways for the protusions of bodies--

held slow in their long fast.

searched for something other than meaning.

as curves catch on to their circle, and holes

moan black--spirituality offers the most

ironic grin.

earthy as ether in the quaternity of face.

water spread through the boulder,

enlivening dead weight with vibratory tide--

a high living flood of changing symbols.

regenerate cells that interpret feel as flesh

would--iterations of fishes.

tiny flickers over water, in the eyes of birds

to their mouths, downwind withdrawn wings

to sure fall of hunger.

far off a ferryboat docked to measureless distance--

leaks the sun's silvery white from its side.

a commotion of sight trying to see something amid

the whelming blanch, then there were waves.

as the shore sheared off water from the tops of them

backward--that could not hold the forward momentum.

Shiva's pillar

of fire upholds--

what cannot fly

upward, fall

downward to

exhaust it.

nor can it be

gone around.

in Benares

the bells ring

in a way bells

can't contain

themselves while

reverberating.

flowers heaped

beyond color but

never more bright.

as pyres forgive

the host with flames,

and yogis bathe in ash

along the Ganga.