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

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.

Breath is never
baited, its sea has
already parted.
In its place a mountain
stands, a man lain across
its peak.
There exposed, what bone
may box a breast,  O dear Mother--
never off kilter.
Therefrom a thread so gold, marrow
met skin, up and away...
a steady pull by the tail end
of an angel.
Relative as the bent forefront of love's law,
where all reunion leaves no remnant.
To find a faith so becoming, space leaves
room for space verging on itself.
How blue the pearl, how circular
the sky of its sea...how golden grows
the thread that breaks with every breath.

wick works thru wax--

downward the upward flame.

center to a square glass table.

a white silk scarf lay carelessly

tossed round a white candle's neck.

material real time, made more

fragile.

as these constituents subject.

seperately spanning the eye

of their relation.

no candle holder.

as this fugue

is lowered into

hollows, finding

the phrase of its

basking shadow.

no part of the wood

left untouched.

the way distance makes an object appear

large or small--this darkness appears

very large.

as messengers of unknowing stir being--

with fewer words of freshly cut flowers

from the future's garden.

there's a feeling of how a stone holds itself

together.

paralyzed by that hold, only blinking back

with the light of mind to offer signs of

sentience.

how hard it grows in its position, yet how

paradoxically lethal grows the softness of

its love.

shamed into speechlessness...

not silence.

what you deem best defense

betrays you.

as your mind leaks chi over

what you've betrayed.

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.

if I could extract an: I

to wash you clean of me,

I would...though there is

something too realized

to say it is unjust.

this is the only way to be

at each other's feet.

this honors prayer without

praying.

it's like cats

and dogs trading

paws sensing you

through the door.

never the same.

her body's danced,
paired within.
stony face of promised
eyes crush their shore.
unstrung garland
of soaked petals.
at her feet.

a torrential

sleep wants

after its

torn fabric.

too finely tailored

to fit.

against the quick

of rain.

ugly dolled up--

a good quiet cry, eyes squeezed

shut.

pretend makes it go away--

sweet sociopathic denial.

misshapen rancor, not a word

spoken of it, only haggard

hobblings, and gutless mouthings.

that cross the T of the tale.

fresh white sheets thrown over a corpse

that plays dead, while the heart

bleeds through.

a truly artful stain.

I've crumbled your

letter and tossed it,
.
smoothed its stubborn

creases to place it at

the feet of Nataraja.

watched daylight live into

the folds while leaving

them at nightime.

my impulse is to destroy,

I've approached your

letter in that way many

a time.

I can't bring myself to

do it, and that tells me something out

of nothing--that I need to know.

but when I consign

it to flames it will be

forever.

a single soul come

together to face

the faceless face of

extinction.

the mind will dissolve

its flesh, to deny itself

the most glorious touch.

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.

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.

All other seasons usher their expectant Mother--
lay her down, and let her be.
Her's is a great birthing...paean of the eleventh hour.
Air blown lukewarm, honeyed...showers soft as
tears that place the face of growing significance.
Inbreaking rumors of life to be, the exultant charge,
moment of creation split green, thus created to divide
but moment ago where none was.
Early fires of greenery...the irony lost on nothing--
the harshest season precedes the gentlest.
Analogous to the truth of hope, where from the dead
of winter...a flower.
Broken open its color as tangible light, to it--the bee's
figure eight prayer, partaking thereof.
The rampant crisis of consciousness creature to newborn
creature, all immersed in the golden wave of renewal.
It's as if a standing ovation burst in a monastery...
what's been withheld in the making is withheld no more,
Mothered by Spring.

There are moments when
consciousness softly
overspreads
the body...
helping it
away
from
obstruction.

A well, with
its myopic view
of the sky...
never new how
its water ended
up in the sky...
love.

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.

holiness dies up

to itself.

a whole miracle.

On some level
everyone knows...
they can see
through anyone
instantly,
so the words come...
cascading
to fill that
infinitely awkward
pause.
The same house,
the same light...
the same vacancy.
Beautiful housewarming.

as with the half-light of what

is taken away from experience--

the half-light of a word dimly

standing for its own meaning.

only a poem can open a word to

the sheer brilliance of its meaning--

by relation to all the words it carries

within it.

as space is

what voids

wave-particles,

a yogi relapses

into poetry.

With baffling reticence these limbs pour--
were they the scream of their creation...
space would about-face.
A clarion call issued them as stars to
constellate a soul.
Secure a God's temperament--and of the
mind given them, what to derive therefrom?
Their wound is not wide from their reticence,
the presentiment of their journey is a steady
creeping...the inching forth of termless conscription.
As pastoral confines bled out the lamb by the
Hand of necessity, these limbs have so
gathered to impart their sacrifice.
A single push of an unfathomable nature sees
them thus and thus.
What center they contrive's amiss...one
cannot take hold the Agony and Ecstasy
handed by One so great.

watch vestiges

of mind lob baloney

darts at no one.