one dream wakes--

planting feet on the

floorboards of another

dream.

abyssal yawn anon.

cognizing archetypal

starfleets at relative

light speeds.

while milking mind

over singing bowls

of cereal.

birds of prey dangle

like trinkets from blue

backwash, bunnies in

their talons.

As absolute an effect
as the strange
trading apparency with
the normal...
dead center of dead
of center, at dawn the
crosswalk is already
fading into sunset...with
uncharacteristic lucidity.
As if something coming to,
at the right place of no-place...
at the right time of no-time.

Of body, blood
and bind--
breath of light...
foot in front foot,
married to moments.
Crystal and unclear,
perfect pictures
trading places.

there is a

worship,

of  breath

in sync.

the sides

of a mountain...

moving up

and down.

too still with

piercings

of sky.

~There will come
a moment when we
will step into a light
equivalent to all our
days~

rusty dusks

leave twinges

of sunlight that

may not lift from

where they lie again.

shadowed corpus

growing late to rise--

the psudeonymn

of the last stranger.

revealing what was

so perfectly hid away--

delivered by the cost of

articulation.

bared--that's all, who's to

say?

as no one can see what that

bareness saw.

Devi's song

is the only

song that

will ever

be sung.

She sang you

into existence.

Listen to her,

feel her,

love her.

She's the one

who'll lull

you to

sleep.

Her notes

wave, as

peacock-feathered

rests

eye your

end.

To a beginning.

Having gone unnamed...
there's a type of intimacy that's
unbearable...what the heart meant
to say, overcome with saying.
In a peopled world of degreed
dearness...meaning is many.
That look, that gesture, that touch,
that word...all full, all empty.
The rawness of conditionality
scared to death of change, which
is death itself.
All feeling is painfully aware of the
inability to take hold...
the outline of the
heart is: I can't let go...the heart
of the heart: I let go.

There's a vividness
to speak of, redder than
wine...where a snowflake's
a white city.
Amending symmetries of
dreams, cut by a sky's
searchless sight.
All flesh a haze, bony scaffolding
of an idol...standing motionless
in a current of centerlessness.
Made immense by a season,
which never gains on its passing.

When the mind's
light smears everywhere...
colors swell to bursting--
right before the black out.

The Light of Consciousness
is more than light, is more
than darkness...though it
allows for both.
The Light of Consciousness
is less than light, is less
than darkness...though it
allows for both.
Having allowed for both, it is
subject to neither.

Heartened by the
merest of motions...
that set the
eyes for inflow...
outflow.
Whose standstill's
in the Heart
of All.

Laying this head
upon a hillside...
whose nurture
was numberless
bosoms.
How green the
liberties of innocence...
lost in termless growth.
Of whose Age of Joy
could never be qualified.
The yonder yellow of
networking dandelions,
setting sunny precedents.
As raring turtle doves
echo winds that have
already changed.
This season of werewithal,
for the reciprocation
of benediction.

Wings set adrift for a tomorrow that worries
for itself.
Wind's plaything whose opulence restores all
retiring worlds.
As if thought perfected down to its wire connects
and disconnects freely the Whole.
Pointedly that Whole knows of itself, and as yet to
know of itself--that lapse that furthers vision in a
flash.
By all soothing shadows that swim hardboiled things...
resigned amongst the transit of other things,
partaking thereby becoming...momentarily.
The welcome home of thing unto itself whose shadowy
screen blew about a holy commune, bows now to its
place to know of it, as an angelic head superseding
gravity.
By blood geared below the surface lapping feverishly...
till a luminosity assays flesh.
Strange the way, The Way is lit...in an instant a world
forgoes itself without changing its heading.
Lone and left to, what's lone and left to...for what
profits an eternity but that which must attain it.

Tilting head side to side, trying that

sickly crick, a frail crackle swimming

pricked up ears.

Not to free such finely embroidered

tension, but what a dog does with its

head when presented with peculiarity.

Mixing the swirled nuclei of brilliantly

colored marbles.

Your high strangeness puts the tick

in my nervousness, supine-stalemate we

protest for full disclosure of intelligent life.

Fatherless Father/Son-less Son/Holy-less Spirit.
Reflection/Refraction/Projection.
In triplicate.
Unofficially, Officially Signed.
Apertures and rooms...
capstone penetrated base,
base penetrated capstone.
Still life.
~
(is perfect)

Not by the cerebral unease
of paradox, shadows agreeing
to disagree (knowing they
are more substantial than things).
Not by the world being taken
away from those who must
observe days.
Not by the incapacity for a
fitting end to those observing
days...do I state, the time is short...
yet no unit shall have its fill of you.


Konstantinos Mark

High tide comes in,
in waves...
waves falling in love
with one another.
A movement bent
on rising.

As this Sunday afternoon
writes itself into existence...
pine needles ****** fine
crowns of sunlight.
Depths of shadow have
entered into states of
reverence...along a pine
tree.

As sunlight commuted
through clouds in
fell surges...
the grassy plain
looked like the edge
of the earth, moving
in reverse...
rushing toward me
seated under a tree,
wowing at its leaving
nothing untouched...
Nothing's Untouched.

I can not count the leaves,
unfallen or fallen...there
are simply too many.
I'm not daunted by their
numbers, I needn't balance
the sheet of a season.
I am counted among them--
we see the same light that
presses on our colors.
We open the opening, we
close the closing...a season
is always at hand.

As candle wick
is dead center,
its flame comes
up straight in the
burn.
Though there's always
a vestige of wind
to weigh against
wax...strange enough...
a candle seems to come
together the more it
melts.
Every which way...
weeping a tipping point.

Candles burnt their encore, sent their smoky
ropes to fatigued altitudinal strongholds.
They slid downward to sinners knee deep
in glossy pews...combing their kneecaps
to sooth a momentarily localized numbness.
Body parts and parts, to parts, and parts...
that are bodies that fell asleep.
Flesh sleeps its church...we are the encore
our candles await.

Your burn is so
big, that whatever
you see is burning
for you.
There's no looking
away, there's no
closing of the eyes.
The more you see
of yourself, an eye
remains there...
crying because it sees.
So many eyes cast
at you my love.

in a storm of

voices and veils--

Our consecrated

crux stands.

the mark of a

King is his ability

to stand alone in

the face of everything.

the very Heart of his

Queen.

When recalling
the phrase: it lacks
substance...I think
of one interchangeably
rotating their pointer
finger and thumb,
clockwise/counterclockwise.
Unable to conjure the
residue of truth made
manifest.
Yet magic touches itself...
whilst making provisions
for disillusionment.

Eyes there are...searching the Unknowable
Face, as for the inviolate intimacy of
reflection.
The momentary consequence of existence,
as image concerns image...desolate
perception has gotten lost amongst these.
Faithless certitude where from what may
be put to light and plucked from it...for
that which is not seamless stands opposable.
Thus...reflection encourages transparency,
relinquishes fortitude, this our disparity
is searchable.
Were that seasons would quarrel amongst
themselves, what is known of a year would
be cast out of time.
Eyes there are...searching the Unknowable
Face, as for the inviolate intimacy of
reflection...space upon the deep of space.
...Perforated by light that is its continuum...
eyes there are searching the Unknowable Face.

Where does the first
breath go?
Does it stream out of
a hospital window,
heralding a being
that's begun again?
Or does it hover
unwaveringly at the
very spot of exhalation?
It's the same air that was
the breath in the lungs
of those present
in the hospital room
prior to your birth.
As it became the breath
of untold lungs henceforth...
it was just that it passed
in your lungs at the moment
of birth.
As it will pass out of your lungs
at the moment of death...
where indeed does breath
go?
Wherever it is needed to
sustain life...it is life
that breathes irrespective
of name.

Eddie Vedder's earthy

voice way into the wild...

manna acoustics, effervescing.

tremerous burial grounds

up with the wind, song to

staggering trees.

moist soil round the still

lightning of roots.

skull-fulls of lyric no mind...

echoing the system.

raising the rythm, enriching

the pattern.

ring around a black hole--

a mouthful of mantras--

ashes to ashes the seven Saptarishis

sit down.

at peak vibration, they watch

Shakti's hair untangled--

flowing into her last seduction.

where the whitest light blacks

out--and Aum's the sound of

a digested continuum.

Shiva burps.

Why does Truth
always reveal itself...
because it remains
present to the
last layer.

If a soul must have its
night, which it must...
how dark it gather, how
thick it be...what's lived
will tell--to what end?
A directionless break of sound,
as if fled
from silence with a start--
the terrible nausea of having
been, and returning to what
now is, which will be...no
more apparent than the experience of itself, roundly met.
How might a personage bear
the scorn of what means to dissolve
what no longer serves it.
What of life that may be deemed
short, or long...as if never born--
or born to die to what's never been born.
Blind stead, whose dross drapes days in wait of gold.

Fall, fall...fell
in love with
this day, as
every.
When the sun
goes down,
her look away
is not frigidity--
but a reminder
of what days
imply.

In their stuttering

whisper, crumbs

engender sparks...what

mouths could not manage.

Grist for relative mills,

measures broken against

blind eyes--square foot

afterthoughts.

Crumbled particulates of the

only feast.

Bluing takes on blue--bluer
elimination rounds of sloshing sublimity.
A heart mouthing its breaker...as
Hokusai's immortal upheaval, the shape
of cataclysmic implication at the peak of
its powers...lent to shapeless actuation.
You may be counted among those
drown by a neutrally charged force
of nature.
Peace be on the heart that could not
help but take it personal...peace be on it.

Konstantinos Mark
*The first of a series of poems.