Do wager these untoward
motions--that what errant way
of soul they spend be sanctified.
By God's pin-up sun...whose
overtly apologetic moon shall
bear its skull forever more.
We that reared head...over and
above--shallow and below.
In keeping with us--Coming has
fulfilled itself.
What more to ask the God of our
begetting?
That the thing that God left, is as
God left it...a promise to a promise.
The way of light, way of dark--never
went back on their word, we attest...
infinite and self-congratulatory.
...Let us pray...as we pray in our
keeping, effortlessly so.

The mind is double talk...
an incessant argument
with mirror images.
A paranoic account of
being pursued of cumulative
aberrations.
Birds in trust of consciousness
have been known to die of
transparency (windows).
They couldn't think beyond a
transparent space...though
a House bid them welcome,
divided against itself.

There's only a
thin layer between
the seed and soil...
there's nothing
between the soil
and sky.
In truth, growth is
always complete...
even while growing.

The circle not
realizing it is
complete...
emits radial
rays in search
of itself.

The Bride which was its essence unto woman, the
Bridegroom which was its essence unto man--the
Living Epithalamium.
Generational rings slipped on and off the earth...
whose lives lived, and to be lived amongst the
manifold induction to creaturesque contention.
Championed, as to be made in the Image that
allows All--and of that All as it shone upon this
earth...the Bride and Bridegroom emerged from
that blinding Light.
...Partake of this your earth, a still unshakable
inner voice implored, for you would not be, nor
this earth, were it not for my longing that you
should partake of it.
You are fruitful, so how shall you not go forth
and be therefore.
This life has neither floor nor ceiling, what is down
is up, and up...down--that is so ye may be chastened
by the ineffable...Living Epithalamium.
Love, were it not--pit against for hatred's sake...
as if in your time I stood opposed in my own--we
could and should tire of such time...as to relent our
time to one another, thus be rid of it.
Transfixed...thy face--resolute as to crumble stone...
wed be as you are, and ever shall be...so loved One...
by the Living Epithalamium.
Thou art an open Wound dressed and redressed...
delivered thereby.
How so of many a time, and no time to dearly depart
from that Wound...were question, question enough...
O Living Epithalamium.

Take heed, but do
not take hold...memory
is more than can be
remembered.
From personal, to
collective... by
disjunction it will be forgotten.
As if its shapelessness were a ripple,
touching on itself to be--
to remember...till it must
adhere to the loss of its round.
Truly, memory is more than
can be remembered,
minds are drawn out by lack
of distinction.

Candle-bearing
peace gatherings...
in Night of Ignorance...
have produced,
~Now~
body-sized candles...
in Light of Bliss.

While on hands and
knees, pulling weeds
from the ground...
I thought that this how
it is...a succession of
larger and larger hands
pulling life out of life
ad infinitum.

Known, let it be--of sight inhaling the fragrance
of roses...of touch hearing the impactful sounds
of stones sacramentally tasted.
The senses shall be as misappropriated goods
in an open air market--coveted by a Singularity
that shall bore them away.
By blameless necessitation what sense took its
turn of sense...called upon by a thoroughgoing
life.
That life solemnly sworn to solidified places of
light--whose need of need, aggrieves not its
reversion to light, but shines upon flesh's folding.
As every burden reaches for its reason, reaching
what's unburdened by virtue that reach.
As Virgil guided Dante through the dark wood,
he was once guided to offer guidance, the
unbreakable watchfulness of crossing paths.
Of guides, there are many--untold many, that the
idea of emptiness at any given moment, is merely
an interchangeability from fullness...ebulliently so.
The senses shall be as misappropriated goods
in an open air market...coveted by a Singularity
that shall bore them away.

Spread thin
as the edges of
sleep...only to
weigh in on two
feet defying dream
with dream.
Curtain upon curtain
pulled aside...keen
to that warbling white,
absolute pitch.

As  innateness
building upon
innateness, making
amends with
choiceless light...
wing upon wind.
Between bounds of
breath, freedom teased
apart...Love opening Love.

My mind continues
to say things about me,
yet the candle I lit
burns indiscriminately.

People may not
realize that, now
and forever are
synonymous.
Here to there has
taken the same
vow.

Ever the fruit-laden Mother,
whose flickering belly
shows signs of nightless day...
dayless night.
Unadulterated call of plumbed
natures, spelling upon
her belly...creative tensions
unstrung to bind bounty.
She engrained the music
of silence, to filter these
slower light years.
Reflections of mirror
images...cadenced in hope.

There's a vine shaped as lightning--
grapes bittersweet, supple...come to it,
each an epiphany.
Crushed, their red skin lets out juice,
life-yield.
Sealed up and put away...the body knows
its blood, wine-empurpled, crimson throb.
At the wrists, at chest, at temples, at neck.
A synchronized pulse keeps in touch,
batting wings.
It is love that's prepared...to move what's
been born of it.
Embodied to embody--there you are my love.
In shock we've been sutured One.
A forever downed to earth, to imbibe drunken
passion--to keep the body from falling over
lest by love.
No cusp more steady than two lips touching
tale--an Edenic one.
Yet--the more we juxtapose bodies, something
ruptures--hands go wild to clutch that ******.
In shame we block the parts that entered
one another so freely.
Shadows are broken light--love can be
prodigiously cruel, but who among us has heart
to expel such cruelty?
Thusly...the heart drinks deep...to benumb.

Acuity's sweetheart, without a peep what whole
to picture, reflect you.
Black hole gone white...you consume all put to
you.
Unwavering stare ad nauseam--great gatherer
of last nerves.
Your only sentiment, an unnerving one.
As per second guess, images donned their
reality within your confines...their dead end of
your wide open.
Grey skies of luminous latency, frozen lakes,
serrated knives, sentient fog--smack of you.
Timeless conversation piece on reserve for what
thing may look into you.
How can something so crystal clear, be so cut off?
Your desensitization was fashioned darkly--that
pained slip...that recoil of what you reflect.
More final than the wall hang you, as to eclipse.
You belong shut in a dark, musty closet, or the
cobweb corner of an attic.
Clearly...you do not merit the light of day...it's fire
to brush...O Great Teacher!

Fashion me the
grace to fall from,
that I might attain
a height as yet
unknown.
Singing praises
to the recesses of
bliss.

A treetop...
a wind rummaging
through eternity--
the unbrokeness
of a surfacing depth.
How far does a
gaze truly go...
even as distance
dictates an end?

A prolific attendance
enlists the saints of now...
whose virtue's the patience
of dying.
God-house gongs
can be heard...
melting into one another
as sound and time.
The sunlight seems
to be loosing a stockpile
of days, disassociated from
"this day"...a nauseating
feeling comes when
sunlight informs more
than flowers.

Without a perceptual safety,

reality would

strip naked, as infinite

lovers wearing

each other's

eyes.

~Our daylights
need beating,
come on babe...
let's Bermuda
these triangles~

A river runs
upon the ground
to hear the
continual song...
of relation
and passage.
The ground is set,
the river is not.
The heart has
cupped this water,
in a fit of compassion.

What's in a push of rain

on a window?

To clarify the attendant

perfection of a glass sheet?

To rinse out eyes,

with the world caught

in them?

Or to leave droplets for

the sun to pick?

Or to frame thirst?

Face stung by depersonalization, caked and gobbed
makeup so eyes of two can tower anonymous.
Round and round, makeup descended, blood runneth
cold...blood runneth warm.
Clown's base rigor mortis white contrasted by pools
of blood-red.
Upturned lips to smile, downturned eyes to cry.
Nose...of a consummate drunk, or irritated swell of
tissue-happy crying.
****** motion spent in a capering given to the clown's
colorful daemon.
Bloated aerodynamic garb giving the birthday-suit
room to free fall the roles it was cast in.
Clown...pinch...perfect...overdone, multicolored
burning bush wig at home...ever at home with clownish
head.
O clown--built by laughing tracks, and the hollow of
broken peanut shells.

Clanging friction on a steel ocean...
tale telling graffiti rooftopping.
Moment face-offs, superimposition
on a mind-screen.
Lampposts and steel beams cutting
sunlight, as it swims through surly
silver subway cars.
Drum roll shadows blowing blue
smoke brick.
Wearing and tearing all knowingness'
superstring hair...willing what wills.
Too many times here, rapacity lives
its death...you can see toes bust
through sheikh shoes, and curl.
Too many times here...too many ways
here, the next stop forgets itself.
As straphangers rock in the Eternal
Now...and those seated uncomfortably
on juxtaposed rows, play eyeless tag.
Playing down a pitless ground,
coring out their reserved space.
As panhandlers jingle change, irking
noise sensitive, sensitivities.
X-ed out by perfect attention to the isle
floor, staring at the colored bits and
pieces--****...to ride on anonymity's
most crowning achievement, in the
most populous American city.
Force feeds one the fullness in emptiness...
as a street musician steps on, waiting to
strike a guitar string.
(Unstruck Sound)

It is of no use to ask why birds commend
the spirit of a day, nor how near their song
gets to sunlight.
We waken to such things, we come to avail
as an open sky...there is no question of
forbearance.
Unmoved as diamonds without valuation,
the light of day...the unseen inner light that
is not day.
The eyes open, and the feeling that sinks as
yet rises--the first and last Frontier can be
seen at once.
Light is before flesh and bone, light is after flesh
and bone...the sun is merely our concentration.


Konstantinos Mark

Straggler whose self-edifying whip

signs the energy of strandedness...

padlocked to the cold ******* of earth,

whose blood flecks gold in a rain of

rays...ready to consume wholes in

that broadening light of upturned eyes.

Its scales, scaling scales that seem to

equalize as open arms...legless, armless--

that belly's bloated deformity.

Fluxing fat off the land, swiveling exclamation

point tapping its head to outer reaches.

Honorary guest ex nihilo,

whose hiss is silence in reverse.

Known, let it be--of sight inhaling the fragrance
of roses...of touch hearing the impactful sounds
of stones sacramentally tasted.
The senses shall be as misappropriated goods
in an open air market--coveted by a Singularity
that shall bore the away.
By blameless necessitation what sense, took its
turn of sense...called upon by a thoroughgoing
life.
That life solemnly sworn to solidified places of
light--whose need of need, aggrieves not its
reversion to light, but shines upon flesh's folding.
As every burden reaches for its reason, reaching
what's unburdened by virtue that reach.
As Virgil guided Dante through the dark wood,
he was once guided to offer guidance, the
unbreakable watchfulness of crossing paths.
Of guides, there are many--untold many, that the
idea of emptiness, at any given moment is merely
an interchangeability from fullness...ebulliently so.
The senses shall be as misappropriated goods
in an open air market--coveted by a Singularity
that shall bore them away.

How many ends in and of themselves
constitute a fill that is yours?
Abreacted claimant...many airs
light at the feet.
I Am with you, I Am you upon this
All-encompassed fold.
Our knees stupefied by weight...
gone weak--gone strong, time and
out of so again.
As a priest walking up the aisle,
censer oscillating the concrescence
of attending souls.
Sniffing for the emblazoned churchyard...
known paces out of doors--the sky
falling down and granting pace no more...
of we, figured in the delving core,
cored out...The Great Scattering.

Disturbers of dust,

shedding your peace

compensatorily, capering

through eyebeams to

become real.

How else achieve ideal

ugliness?

Russian Doll nakedness

opening to the possibility

of beauty.

Exhausting the pretension

of its arbiters.

Pacing with the adamant
intensity of a madman...
at the reoccurring edge of
revelation.
A soundproof roar, guttural
to the foundation of the
earth, passes for silence.
It goes something like our
world, whose lips tremble
while whistling...as to imply
all is well.
To herald the eyes and ears of
revelations that clear the light
out of dark, the dark out of light...
to ****** balance.

The red berry
tree appears
clad in mala
beads...I'm
compelled to
run them through
my fingertips...
while chanting:
blue, blue, blue
sky.

The coffered ceilings
of cathedrals hum...
their octagonal scenes
are dreams of extracted
nectar.
I'm reminded of a dead
bee I parted from a
flower...it was already
so much more the bee,
so much more the flower.
Its non-doership loved
to death its doing.