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

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.

Eyes as rolling
waves...
following
a shaping
thing
that Is...
&
ever shall
be,
transposed
ceremoniously.

~To live, is to be
full of the world...
to die is to fill it.
Nothing holds water...
not even The Ocean~

To feel days on
end as quivering
water...to wear air
as a body of
feathers.
To see an
egg in a snake's
mouth, whose
retractable jaws
slip a world
down its throat.
Gathers leavings of
light...
showing one
gently to the door.

fruit come

fruit, no matter

the kind.

hides its tongue

inside.

sweet, bitter or

both--to the kiss

of taste.

lift it up, offer it

to the sky--then

hurl it to the ground.

with a force that'll

free its tongue--assaying

juice for flies

and ants.

that come to indulge like

clear words.

Quashed by energies too
big to hug and kiss...
the beauteous sitter's
rendered thus.
That quaking catch
disbelieved all the evidence
at hand, till the only peace
was made.

Words help themselves

to the hollows

of meaning...the way

red runs red...and the

Heart loves its brilliant

passage.

In the empty...
of full...
in the full...
of empty...
the Heart opens...
its:
pray by stay.

I Am the Messiah come
to deliver me--
I have come to pass.
Mine own Messiahship  reaches
hand and foot into a
Heaven and Hell.
I have come to pass exponentially,
I Am with me.
I Am breath entranced to breathe...
by a breathing air.
I Am the air of breathing air--
I Am not the fear of a body--
I wear it well.
I Am within, without me--
I have come to pass
exponentially.
I Am with me.

It's the sensation
of holding a bird
in the palm of
your hands...its
silky belly and
prickly feet want
free.
There's so much
warmth created
just by holding
that upward energy.
To bind wings to
a ball...
the mind should avoid
that at the moment
of death.

I wish I could frame this floating...
where the head sheds...
blank snapshots that bloom
forever.
Just to mindfully crawl inside the frame...
stretch, sigh and become unframed.

As one disappearing in
an inward distance,
to reappear in an outer
one...there's an aliveness
here, and only here...
forever redefining
the essence of life.
The grass can never
stop telling you how
green it is.

If unknowing
is our faithful
implosion to
knowing...there's
somehow a
familiarity midst
the flickering light.

Occasion for beauty
bent on sake...
as one blue opening
with the yellow
press of that day star...
overcome to the point
of self-embrace.

Don't fade this jest...
open that country,
valleys whose cupped
palms beg blue overhanging.
Seas apart that smile together...
somewhere out there in
those oceanic depths ,
your heart pulls on mine...
we're both caught on the
same line, let's wade
this jest.

I've seen beauty
feign ugly, to behold
what you carry.
Subject to object of
affection, beholding
itself squarely.
As the attributeless
stupor of its own light...
Lovestruck.

Seated on a park bench...
a ravingly beautiful June
day, the body limp with
relaxation.
A breeze as embracing as
the body to itself...carries
the scent of a dead creature
at its tail end...somewhere
near.

Eyes go to the ground
in such a way...the sky
sees a pair of feet and
understands.

Love opens and
swallows lesser
love...what
was few and far
between, full
of life.

The dreamless anterior, where from the
dream vacated.
Of all intersecting lines bursting the star
of their hub--deemed the twilit Hand at
all starry hubs and their creatures.
Withheld till set upon a particular
realization, that this may think of that,
and that out of this.
Integral as a stone lifted from its mountain--
wailing for the kingdom of dead weight.
If a stone could thrice  cry out and away
from the dreamless anterior, the vacated
dream is both nothing and something...
the dreaming posterior.


World...world over, through...as it is, might
gathered.
Space gathered unto itself, and space
gathered unto itself...adamant dream of
deathless artifice.
Of all the seeming till becoming...a world, the
vast accumulation of what it gathered unto
itself.
Thing upon thing in service of things, the
seamless Whole...world, world over, through...
as it is, might gathered.
World so wanted you for itself, yet world I
am unto myself you might say...and so it is.
There's no world but through you, you and you...
that, that and that.
The lone psyche of everything is a world--world
over, through...as it is, might gathered.
By that lone psyche what world must be gathered
by might, over and again...relents a Whole,
conjoined dreamers All...seamless our world by virtue
of the many who dream it.

As the first
rigid ripple
of a raindrop,
why-why-why-ing
water...and the
poured blood of
a bloom upheld--
the Whole places
its fingertip upon
your most silent
spokenness.
Keeps it there...
till release forgets
the fingertip.

Seabed steps balancing an open rhythm,

hardwired horizon, Basquiat cross-out head.

Sparking concavities of globed trips,

causeless smiles, here~wear one too if

you want.

Off at shine in the make, steps supping ripples

to helices, empyrean's safety cords

vibrating fast enough to shake off

any spell.

The cup overflows
at present...
filling what we
see at present,
emptying what
we see at present.

anaconda

rainbows...

shedding

bovine

rivers.

The ground spoke
with a sound of
feet, the ground
of being spoke
without a sound.

This you say, without
saying, is my frame--
racked by what is
not brought forth.
Triptych of self...reserved by
the momentum of evasion.
Not to outstride holy company.
Compounding the brilliance
of what was stole away from.
As if a face for every
face, that could not bear
its image.
Driven to outposts which
are eyes more naked than
love at war.
So much of self at judgement,
none the more self to judge
having seen.

There's this feeling
of being known
completely,
only when you've
become inconceivable  
to yourself.

death oversleeps its own

repose...to energize the

next life-dream.

whose time come early rises.

all in the name of seeing

The Original Face.

before having both name

and face.

Of time, to meditate upon, will not be the meditation
begun with.
Time thought to itself: I shall be short and concise,
long and imprecise, and in the middle you are...
presently.
To trickle less into more--more into less...for what
wanes documents scarcity.
Drinks the bitter drop, and elongates a weary grin.
Time assumes the rite of Way, as we wait submissively...
and in accumulation of wait on wait--we wait no more.
Our turn is taken up, in turn.
Why the trilogy of a past, present and future?
What Physician unifies light outer and inner, in a
concentrated beam...to pass over our three eyes?
Perhaps an eye for, kept upon--each pillar of time's
trilogy.
Time ensnares our volition to ensure our grace, as the
wind that enlisteth not, bespeaks of it.

Peace is always here...
waiting.
Her patience will undo
any contrary will.

Afoot on this spring day,
noonday denies it snowed.
All the feel of a crystal shell
loosing rainbows where
thought ceased.
Gone so far inward, it comes
outward...as far away.
A bird's voice spreads across
the air, the way color spreads
across flowers.

Pinch-perfect
suns reflect
upon embodied
waters.
As day-lines
draw their
horizons,
like precision
cut diamonds.

Golden-canopied fires of
a due sun's rising...
know which veils must
part as eyelids.
A light brought out
by light beyond fire's
intemperance...places the
dreamer's dream upon that
very effulgent happening.

Could it be other than as it is?
As you would have it, is how you'll
have it.
The very form of your have, and have not...split down prayerful hands.
The opening and closing of eyes survived by the peregrination of a
body...as you would have it, as you'll have it.
A remembrance undone with every blessed motion...cautioning the mind not to keep pace, not to intellectualize such a motioning.
Alas, it would be difficult to intellectualize the anatomical function of the body twenty-four hours a day...would it not?
Grace set against its only backdrop...
a haiku that refuses the trappings of a novel, as you would have it...
is how you'll have it.

Blow after blow
of light in variation
dark.
Would the purifying
centrality of each
blow be withstood...
heart will be said
of stance.

A moment's consolation
is conveyed illogically,
its Intelligence has
communed with
unimaginable factors...
the cut and recut edge,
exclusively abreast.

sitting on a lazy chair,

bones locked in place.

as rain randomly falls

through a breeze like

scattered seed.

wholly intent on the green

sway it compels, i reach out

my hands to absorb the stir.

imprint the latest turning, and

run them across my face.

seeing what sees through me so much

better now, wet all over with the

shoosh of passing cars.

raising the goblet that wets the beak

of a black bird, hailed king of my ghost town.