the words that

have vehemently refused

to come...have been

pointed out of a crowd.

bearing auric marks

akin to infamies in Judea.

they are only beholden to

what they will reveal.

Young with hour,
swapping magic
wing for wing--

Ontologic ring,
scene-setting-sun...
wane orange with origin.

Wan with sigh,
as time breathed through
the mind.

Being slowly stripped

of obsessive compulsion,

unable to creature the habits of X--

its greater pains taken by

pains taken.

Volitional deductions, and

inferences...alibis and motives

scarring a madman's template.

Ram-shouldered entries

through paper thin doors, in response

to off color remarks on his meta-physique.

Isn't nature self-regulating, why shouldn't

it produce freaks of like control?

To assemble variables thereof, Warholian

assembly lines stockpiling non perishables

for unseen disasters.

To man, to woman the reins is a most

satisfying illusion...spurring on the tramping boisterousness.

We like formalities, dress rehearsals, the arteries

of maps...to run our fingers down,

nonplussed by their pulse.

We know that we don't know, today the weathermen

completely butchered the forecast, of this wouldbe

blizzard.

Time is already filtering their accountability.

A*  statue  drooling
with  inertia  twitches
its  ri­ght  pointer  finger
toward  creation,   in
an  oblivion  of  secrecy...
here  comes  my  ­fate
taking  its  own  hand.

Running through fire
all day long;
to sway the prescience
of its gong.

No space is inconsequential...
wherever you may be, for
however long, change is noted
on the deepest level, the most
loving level.
How can a passing thought,
a passing bird, on a passing
wind be inconsequential?

There's a straight line

through any word that

tries you...stern with

final revision.

The improvisational

trail of what you leave

behind.

Voided words better than

a blank page, a

silenced voice made

visible.

Granulated mountains
retain their heights
a millionfold...for
having succumb to
waves of time.

Torpor went about
doorsteps, writhing
for full feel.
Each motion overextended
in hellish laze--who chose
this concatenation to knock
these knocks?
Whose flamed tips forcefully
enter, inscribe smoke upon
a doorway's horizontal beam.
Come, everything that can
happen, is happening to me
as you leer, magnify your
favored pore.
Plus or minus, please perceive--
this equals the same set of responses
in Equal Measure.
Reverting to one another, as a moistened
line that slides a blinking eye.

Bless this had
moment with
astonishment...
that it may gratefully
enclose holy.
Where from none
the more may
come.

God help all
who incur the
reality of a
broken heart.

Voice...of
wind and
wave, eyes...
of one washed
ashore, from
way too far
to tell.

Butterflies bang away at
my stomach...leaving all
kinds of color in its
vice grip.
Of my tales...you were
tallest--you poured me
out and moved in.
Without question you
used god-years laden
heavy with the most
curious wisdom.

Creamy pale yellow moths,

translucently glom the buttery

mists of sunlight's skin, hers.

Naked with vision, redefining

outlines of afterglows...prickling grids,

as if she could shed the body.

Imagine the sun as a being

that reached into its chest

and began frenetically tearing

off excess layers...till The Heart

was reached, and every beam

became an arm of giving.

eyes cross staring at the

Narrow Way,

till the chaste *****

of the third eye breaks...

to part them.

where the apparency of

refracted light filtering

thru the material world

attracts to mend.

then there is nothing

but candles upon the altar.

Through dereliction
of logic, the hemispheres
of the brain wash each
other as hands.
Thereby openly conversant
with the heart, as of any
matter.

Your head lowers
when diving into
The Ocean.

As squared circles
we seamlessly,
and effortlessly
observed one another...
a silence spoke so
evenly
we embraced without
touching.

As a child's arms
openly asking
how much they're
Loved...an impossible
circumference is lit
in answer.

These burgeoning essences--
serve themselves beyond
senses, five.
An opulence who awaits
one hand and foot...come
their late greatness.

the Voice of voices

detaches itself...

to speak what will

enter the ear.

truer than the harried

command to Wake

to a given morning.

that falls deaf on her--

as silence is not the

absence of sound.

she's so full of giving...

that for once, let her

hear her own voice~

there are words

that join hands

with other words

to go beyond the

apathy of meaning.

whereas reading &

comprehension are

what you'll have them

be.

this bay-skied easel works

pastels off the frame, to a

baby's palette off the face

of the earth.

as a cooling breeze birds--

with the moving images

of birds not necessarily

in flight.

or in view just now.

the seagrass loosens the

tide as antennas in reception,

picking up on the shadowed

cavities of distant trees

whitening birds

trying to come in.

the smell of sea salt heavy

as a sacrificial animal, trailed

by imploding senses.

ask yourself this...

while you become

the hypocritical that.

as always--to those

concerned, what power

drew your eyes to read

into these words?

what made them a doorway?

they mean something to you.

they want to show you some

kind of way, they're spatially

unchallenged when they look

dead in G*d's eyes

for your Self-sake.

the first and the last breed, breed

sons not of Man.

as women bear birth,

so they might feel for themselves.

these two hands wash the

blood out of water

to clarify nothing.

except...

the Word of their

mouth to dash across the

tongue of their drink,

ever parched.

only visions of water.

Jeshua too passed out and

in with the devil while

roaming.

~Aum Namah Shivaya~

Nicked by stars
in a dreamless
state...while
fielding visions
of the coming
sun.
Scarcely
contained by the
day it's put to,
as if put out by.
A superabundant
living space lit with
great care...dying space
smote with great care.
For love
to see passed itself,
hence Love the more.
The only way to assuage
such clarity.

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.

Our core seems to ever
bear the offhandedness
that bore it...
a flame's mind is the
space it lights.

Time has all
the feel of a
mouse soundlessly
chasing its tail...
engulfed by a far
greater field.

thousandth word

of picture's: where

to?

truce-drafted by

marks to be unmade...

as soon chit chatted

as whiled away passion.

yet, the by God of it!

a river does not balk when

surrendering to an Ocean--

it does not disavow its

forward motion.

it runs with what it means--

surrender.

it does not sidestep its promise.

there's too much singular force of

faith and surety.