The tongue is a
solitary dancer,
whose tip weighs
words that may
never make it out.
These are the words
when truly weighted...
free the solitary dancer.
To the rythm of poetry,
thus made indistinguishable.

White answerable
to white...black
the perimeter
sworn to silence.

Cut from a moment's charge,
legion with motion...
the sound of a knell held
full sway.
Receiving ends of sound
cried what they could never
qualify.
In answer, and in answer--
adjoined questioningly...
to nonentity.

The ache of a bough,
bent brown furrows
of ellipsoid swirls--
coarsely carved disentanglement.
Rootedness pining after
uprootedness.
As a wind conversely
passes a bough for
proof of existence...
pining after rootedness.
Ache in tandem,
sounding.

First and Last impression foisted a revelatory sheath that
is the looking glass of all incarnation.
Revelatory sheath Facing both ends of the whited tunnel...
prior to birth when exiting...upon death when entering.
What was, is, will be Faced...prelude to the sound of
silence...that is the mouth of the nameless called by Name.
White pearls that spun their shells, as dilating eyes that
behold self in no-self.
Space fatigued by perfect stillness...self in no-self, suspended
animation...whose mind is allotted infinite motion.
The Original Face...***** features insure paradox...must be
worn and beheld Wholly...lest a chaotic incoherence whorls...
irregardless of the image of self...imageless no-self.
If Pure Consciousness had a Face--divested of its Way through
materiality, to melt by that which it cannot transcend...how
would it appear?


*"Original Face" is a Zen terminology referring to our face before we incarnated.

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

Glass brightly:
globus head, paroxsym
of a goldfish...fighting
to stay conscious
of water.
Glass darkly.

Something acting on
our own behalf,
shows up during
the broadest of daylight...
and begins
cutting all the excess fat
till we may
stand comforted in skin.

The ocean blued,
dashed across black
rocks...melancholia
coupled with sighed
relief.

How long can
you go without the
need to take away
something from
an experience?

Colors blent of their
own accord...culminating
ecstatically.
That brilliant white
point reflected in All your
eyes.

Wanderer, signing off with
worming vacancies...heard
by golden silence treading
the floorboards of heaven.
Given to evolving vacuity...
wide-eyed son
undone by inner vocality.
Knowing distance is the
crux of a hereafter...
a distanceless hush abides.
Personed by place, placed
by person.

Your body language
tunneled
light-years...
with blinding presence.
Flow-ers said their
peace silently...
to pay homage to
them-selves.

The blueness of
this sky...has
championed
the suddenness of
things.
Emboldened of color,
as thy will be done.
Godspeed in brilliant
lieu of...
though may come
evils as the bare
necessities of peace.

Light entered newly, continually...touching light
that imaged--I swore I was there, yet there was
elsewhere.
I could isolate no thing and call it mine.
Bluing takes on blue--bluer elimination rounds
of sloshing sublimity...swelling, welling
and sparkling.
A heart mouthing its breaker...as Hokusai's immortal
upheaval, the shape of cataclysmic implication lent
to shapeless actuation (futurity).
You and I could be counted among those drown by
a nuetrally charged force of nature (Love).
Peace be on the heart that could not help but take
it personal...peace be on it.
Dark entered newly, continually...touching dark
that imaged not--I swore I was there, yet there was
elsewhere...O impossibly personal/impersonal One!
Tears of brine can be tasted...how bitter they are--
the Ocean has shifted the focus of her love.

Noisome ghost
whose atoms
are bells haunting
its house
being
Housed...
to Awaken...
I.

Beauty is the only
vestige that can bear
to be alone with
freedom.
It's that which has
surfaced against
an infinite backdrop.
For the mysterious
initiations of eyes.

finding wonderment fully responsive--

and never feeling more seen, I come

inherent with asking.

as with a fruit burst ripe through a page

of air--how is it you have come out of

the Great Hiding?

to offer what you buried under many a

season for safekeeping?

a love's Love, fierce with the preludiums

of stark blindness, a mere entry point

for the beginning of surrender.

there will be so many moments of arms

to die in--I am readying wholes of me

my Love.

Light enfolded--back sliding down
a wall of one's world.
In epiphanies of mourning.
Informed motions gone through.

As the walls wear gold,
where they wore black--
as the waking that's awoken...
as the sleeping that's slept...
the thoroughness of it all
lives us to surrender.

A sunny blue sky
strong enough to speak
about being that clear...
all these buds feel as
if they're embodying
tenderness...more
and more.

far rarer than the

idea of oneself...

to have connected

with their mind.

in another.

As a nail is forgotten
in the wood it's driven
in...confounding purposes
uphold liberating ones.
The dull aches of those
inveterate grayish regions
of a standing structure--
inversion of human proportion...
sanctum sanctorum.

Forgive me...for my monumental
misapprehension, of your ineffable
Whomsoever.
I ****** upon the cloth that cut us,
because I was a housebroken dog...
forgive me.

Necro night, obsessive polish...
smooth as a piano's torso.
A man profanes the vested
interests of his body with starry
eyeshot.
Stuffing the pig of non being
with a star's nonlinear light.
The rapid fire vexations of a
king invade him, unspecified
bidding must be carried out.
He sees the world scurry,
sevitude's hand and foot--the
glutted pig of his non being
belches tremulously.
The horror of full emptiness
drives him from star to star, his
subjects multiply to appease
the royal malcontent.
He tears into curses cast at God,
the king blacks out.
The night sits encased in a man's
room, ants of darkness crawl on
him...he lets out a sigh...then begs
sleep.

The ecstasy of
buds lie in wait...
tracing to their
Source blindly.
When they reach
it... they will suddenly
see in color, be color.
Garner eyes of worship.

Rocking in place,
narrowly missed
by the widest way...
this strange fire
that cultures
its angelic coop.
Their claustrophobic
allegiance to a breaking
heart.

The windows are open...
the room is
breathing with me...
a perfect
vitality assigns
passage...
as the unanswerable
ripens its blessing.

A multitude of faces
choir in various
states of grace.
They must be shown
to their respective
mirror, if multiplicity
should cease.

music overeats

the Sunday

of its chorus--

until every sense

is a verse,

of prevailing

origin.

The mime of fateful silences
transcribe...as cross-ventilated
corridors wafting the articulate
voice of a ghost...an addendum
of whisperings.
By these pliant leagues...under
the say so of seas.

Might I bid you farewell: madame, sir?
It is in such a way of my ways that
this farewell's come.
The presence of my absence rests
everywhere...will you feel it?
Madame, sir...are the pair of you
disinclined to gather my absence?
That is, has our supernatural
acquaintance minded the material
script, merely minded the material
script?
If so, I should take this moment, as
it surely takes me, to propose my
soul.
It is such farewells that ferry us to
the supernatural, it too will mind
its script.
It is when it has minded its script...
that you will know the presence of
my absence.

The candle

becomes

aware of

burning,

mid-burn.

the energy surged,

shot--

poured,

weighed down,

lifted

stone unto

mountain.

where i had a vision

of yogis grounding,

and transmitting Shiva.

death ****** in

my head with

gurgling force.

just then my eyes

slowly saw the

light of morning,

this.

Preludium: as gaps fulfill
their color...
may we be privy
to dream.
From a cornered
eye, freed from
its perfect cut...
true to life, yet not.
A sharp right into
blue.
Its sky slid the
silent take of a red
tail hawk...caught
to the gravity of a limp bird, shrunk by shock.
I sat by, the bird's feathers fell
in countered curls and spins.
Amidst parkland, near a
pitcher's mound...snow
traced its fall the night prior.
The wind blew, and I
swear...snowflakes coupled
with those falling feathers.
What's out of sight is always
gentle--what sees is carried
away.

her haunts still rain the pindrop

turnings of their recesses--

where no wind could wrest her

words to solitude.

her throat raising sounds rapt in

the beginnings of song--the flight

patterns of birds upon a sky's

private screening.

she softly traded hands upon her

throat, her fingertips tickled by

the meaning of everywhere at once.

with everywhere in mind, she took

her time with every little thing, carrying

its note.

now her song is building to the point--

ears may be struck deaf by a silence

that was indeed golden.