i can already

taste the light

that will break

my heart at death.

what it is to say

goodbye to everything

at once.

when a sword's brandished,

it will always

reflect the light of mind.

come martyr or assassin--

beyond the sword's double edge.

all samurais Sleep.

Something therein lives...
to be
opened by degree,
counting by heart the
growth of Light.
Opened by degree...
let that openness
thereby referred to,
be that of Love.

If irony be crowned
of its own...Truth dies
reaching for itself.

There's always an innate motion
to imagination...whose imagination
of itself remains motionless.
As the mind goes blank with
imagining itself...God comes
in as consciousness--ever motionless.
The Only made real...fully, and
All at Once.
A sigh just came through me...and
somehow I know why.

Paradox
wants nothing
more than
to bind the
hands of a moment.
So that living-death
may take courage.

no one
ever
sat
there

All around, The Circle
colors itself.
A Circle too vast for
circumvention, only
the colors of centers
that give way.

Where is my
country, the stupendous
cut of my miraculous
share?
Where is my
country, whose tongue
wants more for the
vibrations it words?
Where is my
country... freer than me?

warming rain green

to stemming bones,

throbbed forth in honeyed

pull.

Shaktic involution of color

bursting exponential

with knowing.

Satguru to the spring of

emission...floating on the

vibrations of wakeful sleep~

Van Gogh
was blinded
by light...
so he drew
holy braille.

Kali leaves her snarling

nail prints in a tiger's

nostrils.

long after no one is

invited.

drawing dual grimaces

of respect.

drawn to the last

gulp of light, to sate

sight you sit in that

supreme darkness...

and wait.

on

word of The Word--

you feel it coming through.

steadily wearing away your

meditative mark.

you're living-dying all over

yourself.

you don't know where you are,

save for the summoning charge

of a final spring's lush push.

chills on end.

Blessings should
be counted, as one
would the sun
framed in a window...
blinded with gratitude.
As if what was received
was already given.

What keeps these eyes ever
apart, yet seeing uniformly...
Michelangelo's: "The
Creation of Adam" met
perfectly halfway.

Faintly January,
enthroned by tradition...
yet time is too full with singular
collapse.
Older than The New
Year, younger than last year.
Minute detail pulsing
over the lip of The Cup.
Collision of cause and effect...
karma's confession.
Thought, out-thought...
just the crushing crux
of diamonds, being caught
by the right light...
faintly January.

the half-drowsing

eyes of

The City Burner

cleanses all

exit points.

Doesn't a root whistle
in memory of the wind
on its way down?
Knowing downwardness,
is upwardnes...in the
subtle song of its bed?

at birth the stone was

cast and glass went dark--

cursed to wander the sightless

terminus of his days.

a blind snake charmer filled

the holes of his flute with

fingers speedily entering their voids.

there was no more gravely

urgent sound to be heard, as

neighboring ears fell into his

lonely kingdom.

his Heart carried across from

the mountain road which he sat--

way down the valley.

he played from a featureless and

single point, that he would die for

at any moment.

which came across with every note,

what distance no foot could cover.

snakes would often beat themselves

to death on stones to dance away with

the melody that possessed them.

only when he lowered his flute and hung

his head, did he let tears fall down a

groundless ground.

i love this meadow...

I-I think I'll just

lie down and look

at the sky.

waiting for her face

to appear.

whereupon she Once said

she'd lose consciousness if

she beheld it.

yes, it can be like that...

and it Is.

she comes Knowingly,

silence is just a single

space that makes way

for her.

A stream parts its
watery hair over
stones, as time
renews too often
to tell...akin to
blood figuring in
gently.
A plainly hidden
crossing, where
only private
worlds lie in wait.

of late, in its impermanent

surround--this

ash-caked heart is being

bathed like a sparrow at

the base of a fountain.

as a Mother's water breaks...

this water's emanated.

Wisdom*  is  what
silence  is  broken  for--
then, ­only  then...
water  never  rushes
between  states.­

A day is done

in its memory.

It comes back

to me in the

same way.

Without knowing

its done things

in memory of me.

We're

done in memory

Of.

pull out your

sickle and cut

down as many

Buddhas you

encounter upon

the path.

all you'll be met

with is the slight

purse of their overjoyed

lips.

barely containing the

cosmic joke.

Everything crosses
paths...stars.
Silver sanctuaries...
whose ages wax gold.
Filigrees granting a
sun that sees...
****** venerations.

one leaf has

to fall first,

atop a flower

like a petrified

fist.

performing an

austerity in

Mother India.

a damaru in Shiva's

hand.

Now never parts
with itself...it's a
black and white
hole showering
itself with centripetal
points.

breath does far more than expound--

though voice comes of it.

as the cave of the spiritual heart

hums numbered breaths among

the numberless.

a solitude so telling, silences plunge--

to what death, what life?

a feather drowns as it floats.

peeled of flight, though hinged upon.

a delicate white remnant of breath's

word...so taking it's taken.

On your knees
before a watery
plane...glassy
turbulence,
****** reconstruction.
Face down, face up...
omnium gatherum.

Everything succumbs
to a flood of memory...
a perfect recollection
of being in One Moment.
Every moment possesses
memory, memory consists
of moments.
Though there's only One
Moment with no need
of memory.
That which stands, must
know why it stood.

Tundral-ticks of splitting floes--
below, darkrooms where a polar
bear developes.

To irreversibly
flower...
the flower must
wither under the
same sun.

as a prostrate cobra's

raised--with the help

of no legs or arms.

split second flower-burst

hood--thrice biting a blink

of an eye.

full with the command of

love's dormancy--striking

out.

you'll never know what

bit you.

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.

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.