If a day were a
heart that let out...
whose sentience
wore ashen clouds
in random puddles,
a dankness that
swore to deified
pangs.

...Brightly broken...
lumine-go round,
~Always~
wound one
wend away...
the
Spotlit Circle.

As a storm necessitates the great
concurrence of clouds, the vast
exodus of their contents touch
down to earth.
Hard it cometh, gentle it passeth...
nothing of its fulfillment left in want.
By thunder and silence...the
discourse hastened unto...what of
Heaven...what of Earth?
By all intuition vast--what sought
shelter but moment ago emerges...
to Know thereupon.
Carried in, carried out--let him, let
her, Know...there is no other Way.

Eruptions of pigeons,

from the loose teeth of

buildings, hacking whirlwind

romances sharing the thought

of flight.

Leveling with streets shrinking

and enlarging life...outflanked

by urbane sowers.

Shifty to the seed in rootless

takes, spur of the moment,

sparring impressions.

The strength of strangers driving

home the impossible arbitrariness

of pass, and be passed.

The canker of count in loss--rage

to the wall that's hole, from where

they know one another not.

Up ahead, The Empire State Building

stands like a towering depersonalized

roll call.

the sky's getting behind

its blue--to terrify itself.

electric, alert and popping.

the trees fizz lime green.

the moon's askant

half-sunk--

the tapered brushwork

of a blown crown.

Envision a trembling
hand within, holding
a mirror to inner life...
this goes everywhere
with us.
Yet you are everywhere,
consider the paradox...
inner life proves its
transcience as it passes
through us...we're
unquantifiable.
We're both larger,
and smaller than life.

Light knocks skyward...the world opens
unto itself.
One immense illumination felled--
despite ourselves we find shadows
outstretched...rationed eclipses to
ground.
The light of the world secreted...
becoming ominous upon thee.
Motioning, as if haling the soul's
transport...the living seem untimely.
As an arm raised to the wind to better
feel of it, discern direction--a handful of will.
We pull one another from moments...
and in that pulling agree that time has
passed.
We wear a mind of welcome--to make
our way through what's forbidding.
Light knocks skyward...the world opens
unto itself--we were meant to move and
be moved by its embedded cognizance.
Till love has become of us, and the light
of the world we are...undone.
For that which knocks must be answered.

Eskimos have many
words for snow...
so they may
remember
what fell from
the Realm of Forgetfulness.

Just how blue
it goes, caps the
dream.
Skies face first
and last light...
there I bed my head.

As clouds poring
over a flaring face...


risen beyond
feeling to raise a
face to a sky, and
shed convulsive tears
of dissolution.


If it is what it is...
I'm not what I'm not.

An ongoing series
of being surrendered...
brings to mind a bird,
brings to bird a mind...
tucking its head into its breast.
To ride out what's riding in.

A razor's
edge is what
smiles...and
all the blood
that must
play catch up.
The irregular tap
of passion.

...On the hour...twelve long stares in
want eternal--of which a clock rivets
nothing.
Spoilt milk stirred with a dead cow's
****...full revolution boring a hole of
light.
Overlook...to end, means and
justification--beginnings...the
perpetuation of beginnings only.
...Replenishment...centrifugal force--
by necessity must guard against...
for the love of beginnings.
...A tick expressed nervously on a
white wall...for fear of beginnings...
twelve long stares in want eternal.

where went the

last

defense of life

given up, to

love with

That Love?

it feels very

much like she's

left our

company to

go searching for

the meaning

of what opened

her in such a way.

...My Family is an indivisible
Light...where from bodies are
illumined to story.
My dear Family...O my dear
Family...illumined to story...
choice-point-impossible...
fully lit...
Om...Om...Om...
my dear Family.

Never enough can be
said of anything...
here n' now--in
particular, rain.
I get the feeling that
revery lives in rain...
glassy faces catalyzed
till blank with unbelievable
intelligence.

concentric rings around

a rosie, tiny magicians with

pockets full of posies.

rattling in a birdcage, dancing away

between bars--teal blue

hats and cloaks, overlaid with

icy yellow stars.

broom-beards wisped down to

their feet, apercus gloaming.

scroll mustiness of aslant starlight--

shuffling space dust divining an Age.

we've been
mortally
wounded
by the need
to know.
we come
again and
again.
we die for it.
knowing
and not
knowing
are the same.

The
body
is
consciousness
pierced
outward,
thread
pulled
through
Clo­th.

There are moments when
consciousness softly
overspreads
the body...
helping it
away
from
obstruction.

No signs for star-crossing in the
dead of galactic night...beings
dream drawing their faces.
Colors change freely to arrive at
their God...resonate to place the
face.
As if the Seer is seen, in love with
what is to be itself...color, colored...
face, faced...a being beholds a
shooting star in the dead of galactic
night.
Animal-skin-centuries hunted by
Light.

The crushed
grape has
already
tasted of
the vine's
drunkenness.

White effulgence...
all at Once.
The sound of Once repeating
through levels
of density.
Come image, the residue of void.
Freshly rinsed as a stone wet
with nectar,
whose field of vision's
a vermillion dawn.

What is winter to me, that it smother
with a host of heavenly fingerprints?
What is it, and who am I that its
snowflakes take their rest of me?
Unabashed white, hilt of pure, bidden
common to bid common.
Let us say...we know of such things, to
know not of such things.
Such things are not of discerning order--
but go to the eyes and remain there, as
steadfast with world or other of like.
I submit, tiptoe by the gaping ear of a
slumbering angel.
Wrap me with mine own arms, with
increase to countenance the witness
I bore.
What is winter to me, that it smother
with a host of heavenly fingerprints?
What is it, and who am I that their
snowflakes take their rest of me?
Come now I to know...come now winter
to know, by line of lowly poet, to lowly
snowflake...nothing is spent and not known.

~Awe knows this house,
has customized it...as
clouds that billow, and
rivers that run...unmanned
acumen...Aum~

Split streams running
round a growing
mountain, red wall
sunset's crowning
yoke.
Birds of feather and
bone, flying afterthoughts...
this heart has been
taken to itself.
As soon exiting through
the chest, or back...
answered with every
knock.

The light fixture
let out light, as
the windows let
in sunlight.
The watcher played me,
qualified luminosities.
Until the bedroom felt
fully indivisible
by its walls.
Our three lights dawned
on one another.
Then there was Light,
for no apparent reason.
Occurring to no bedroom
at all...light thrice
perceived till overall.

Please spot me a high time
straight from your Center...
so we can disentangle our
latest findings.

Street sampling word, pierced on its side...

work zone cones the wickedest witch

cruel-worlds under.

Cab meters left running,

ante upping ante.

Wheatpaste wars boom-blocking,

moonlighting black

gum splotches under years of feet.


Millions of ways of home, trample-trials in this

stink-thick Dutch settlement.

Where faint of hearts get blown in handkerchiefs,

and the court jester plays his head in the face of the fallen.

Where plastic bags fill trees, like women with hair rollers

screaming at children to come inside before nightfall.

In soft repose, amidst
fading layers of adulation...
I spied the spirit in
full regalia.
As the King and Queen
embraced, their golden
crowns melted into one
another.
At that moment I realized
I was the fruit of their
passion, born of spirit.