A tunnel is
the blackout
space for
supreme
realization.
End to end...
beginning to
beginning...
middle to
middle.

a hole stood up, & sealed off--

thin as a glancing blow.

a black poka dot that fell flat

on deep space again.

the face plant of an arch.

sort of like a slinky taking

a linear step.

reopening & consuming

significantly more of unsaid

space.

you would never know.

as would a white moth

disintegrating against electric

red inners, like confected

sugar.

There's no sullying its consternation of him in her,
her in him.
A downy black of exquisite precaution...pops its
ruffled heretofore and floats.
As if a night cocked back its neck to calculate the
trauma, longingly poised as a swivel of mottled
blood.
The black swan's eyes fork some bygone coruscation
to their very top...as if in the throes of demonic rapture.
Whereby reality's moments of lucidity seem to catch
frozen frames in want of editing.
Thereupon...as there it is, as there it goes...the black
swan subsumes, wears the guise of regal unnaturalness.
A betokened freak loosed...loosed...so...softly, at
maximum indifference...O black swan.

White answerable
to white...black
the perimeter
sworn to silence.

the blast furnace

of a

carousel--

encrusts the burnt

umber of horses.

with the continual spray

of a crimson outline.

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.

At the peak of
presence imposed,
wet with rise and
fall...you eulogized
something that could
not escape us.
We grounded the sky,
we skied the ground...
the circumvented posts
of our eyes ran as blind milk.

The way a
title wave crashes
on shore...
and lesser waves
sup what's left
of it...saltwater
blithering to sand
about the logic
of destruction,
ergo emotion.

Cezanne's patchwork crestings,

hitherto spring to bloom

into cubism.

springs hence.

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

the sky's getting behind

its blue--to terrify itself.

electric, alert and popping.

the trees fizz lime green.

the moon's askant

half-sunk--

the tapered brushwork

of a blown crown.

prayer wheels are being

spun by a herd of windhorses,

thundering on all planes.

soothsaying sounds of unbounding

lay of lands, tumult and constant

arrival.

urgency in passing, outrunning

urgency in passing.

glassy eyes wearing the kicks of

hooves and speeded ground...

the herd of wind horses due to

blow through Shangri-La.

whereat they will die down, as

their Heart receives them.

the glancing blow

of one stone.

sparks against

nothing else,

but a bludgeoning

mountain.

the pride of a

shore setting sail.

The passengers board
the blue bus...it's full.
The passengers unboard
the blue bus...it's empty--
destinationless.
The blue sky's likeness.

birds spend their lives searching

for the root of the sky.

they fall from the sky, only when

the sky pulls their root.

where blue clouds appear full of

their flight, all of their song.

for one final contrast.

Formless words...broadcast scribbling space, their diagram
of poetic motion washes over you...formed on impact.
Dark room's glow in broad daylight--your fully developed
picture...deepest blue of two worlds in one, betwixt vibration.
Hue of the canonized, twanging entire a cloudless sky...
enriched tenfold in mimicry of you.
If only stained glass and silk would wed, search light's
spectrum...distill the most affecting gradation of blue--
then would you see a just replica?
Visionary's shield...where earthen wend unveils the abysmal...
that eyes may remain upon you--till one is ferried, and
vision seen through.
Apogee of seventh sea...epicenter of dancing Nine Muses,
whose round keeps the Blue Flower earthbound.
Blue Flower of the poet's pilgrimage, whose synesthesia
electrifies.
Blue Flower...a nebula pinned to earth, the name of spring
born of you.
The golden section of angels fly their flawless form to you...
that High Art may pray to High Art.
...Blue Flower, commended spirit rife with grace...whose
ceaseless hour at hand holds beauty alone.
Mind, quill to tongue riven--if ever...ever is now--Blue Flower...
ever is Now!
The words of this poet have begun fasting...not to eat of what
they cannot sacrifice...their Blue Flower.

As the emanations
of a saint, in
eternal spring...the
Blue Hyacinth sat.
A fragrance more
home than home.

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

helped to waking by liquid

meeting solid--though

something

volunteers absence for most

of the wetness.

too

clear about what's balancing

the rain of sound.

bone dry with what mercilessly

seeps in.

there was this guitar picker

who'd dress in an all black suit

everytime a thunderstorm

would make a move on his

bones.

he'd lean against a lamppost--

fedora tipped down, and

play the same old song.

until the bones in his guitar

were picked out.

a bore

hole in

a mountain's

a cave.

where yogis

forever dwell.