In my poetry,
I choose the perfectly wrong word.
Life conflicts and conflates over time,
So much that
Rivers masquerade as murderers,
Pilgrims as saints,
Songs ruin marriages and
That which acquaints,
Only distracts and baits.

Like an eye transfixed by a line of roses
That are subdued like a harlot's reclining poses,
He sees shapes, one illuminating the next

Of different layers of fullness,
Of hue and form
They all conflate and are completed with the eye.

If you meditate on one poem, you can learn more from that one poem than an entire book read carelessly

Is music more like women weeping,
Or giant glaciers melting
It is both, for through all speaks the One.

One is a human reaction, like light coursing through
A prism,
The other Nature's blunt abandon.

What makes music pious,
And women chaste,
Is the straining for perfection,
In the name of God and his image

This force is distinguished from clockwork
As every adage can attest.
Within the straining Man is this mission,
And what is life without purpose?

Knowledge from the Lord
Is unknowable without effort
And we must distinguish
The clockwork of the good,
From the underlying mission.

Oh, music
Only the mountains stand together
As a choral refrain
Highlights nature alone and together.

The swells as low as nature's valley grasses.
The notes reach as high as tundra's barren fields
Oh music,
How we know with you, and without you

Know how you might appear,
As a ghost foreshadows
To the knowing soul

Oh music,
only the word of the Lord
Could ever match thee
For within its secret duality lies the temporal,
And in the temporal is the infinite.

Alas, a canvas is the human flesh.
Not created through a mesh,
or dribbled on a sponge bereft
of the living vessel.

Your skin, our skin is one
And when we curl up to get some sun,
It speaks of art unknown to maker or recipient