Have you seen the soft light of her eye?
The speckled dusts that line
the record sheaths
Spinning in the groovy beat of eternity

Somewhere high above the skies
veiled in wisps, her water-bearing cirrus
and looming presence of Cumulonimbus
running the deluge of thoughts into the brain
and giving the gift of loving rains

There she is, the lovely moon--
A pockmarked pearl in distant gloom
A momentary gift, spinning her disk
in shafts of light on fallow eyes

I have been long lost, in varied dream
The boundless world around careens
Empty towards the end of move
But I'll spend the rest of this with you

The moon, Earth's aeons of planetary dance
in loving poise of circumstance
Her writhing storm of life between
the ever-floating nodes of light

At the ending of the world
there is a great unraveling
that celestial bow, wound into heartsong
and maestrate the caring music of things--
with these passions of the mind,
God seeking to unravel himself in the ever-fleeing
moment of philosophy, a Persephonic instance
in the archetype of love, psychotic and misnamed,
strait-jacketed in sin and given nothing but sweet
momentary decay

all the powerful souls connect sexually with the cosmos--
payed off, bastardized with a cigarette between their whispered lips
we hold no wealth but the ever-shifting dollar of life.

Fat Jack, fondly Catholic with angel smiles-- holds a rock of God in his hand, rocking softly
in god's busted gut-belly
spread like butter amongst the stars, asking all the same questions of Nirvana--
The last rumble of a skin-tight drumskin wrapped within a screaming symphonic twang of remnant souls--
Walking the notochord of corporeal form
the fantastic drone of rotorcraft, taunting the angelic lads and their brigadier God, singing psalms of limerence
Charlie Parker, musical sadness
Jack-man gladness
Don't forget them in the moment of monastic incantations

High-risen pyramidicals
Euclidian pitter-patter against the gusts and rains
in familiar, repetitive shapes the droplets of ichor
elucidate the frowns of downtown humanity
the locked door at the edge of the room, the air evacuated in fear,
seeking safety in the favorite belfry of an ancient wailing abbey
the dusty oil-towns of century ago
Imbibes the modern-day Maricopa plain
folk digging for dino-rock and black gold, selling dreams to downtrodden lost boys
the mistakes of RV park families

Farmland road
in Louisiana brew
the atmosphere, keeping personal thoughts trapped
a high-pressure zone
the ever-wandering
churning winds of eventual hurricane
the sequence that tickles Fibonacci's fancies and
calls us to dream--
a great Babel of God's consistent scattering heart.

in this great combustible chamber, loud obnoxious gaseous veils
in a low sigh our precipitate souls
smog on the failed shackles of stale blood
dripping this oil on the lips
holding friendly smiles
hiding sickening grins
callous, angry, the honey-chalice sought be not by man or God
alike;

Charlie Parker, playing the world's instrumentation
a track to follow
faded as the ancient road roaming
Rome's wet snail trail
blinking and shimmering into existence
a dewlit morning
the conglomerate rock is a cradle for human discomfort
admitted and hidden
to be a better hold than the hands of the earth
in these cornmeal roads,
digging out sugars from her *****
and sipping on the liquor of life in classic fermentation

to hold the road in your hands, the world on your lips
to tell the catacombs of love you would be her hostess,
seeking answers in the bones of ancient souls and refining
in deep sighs,
loving the things we cannot be.

Zara, love of life,
Spake in curtled call
Allfather, lover of light,
To bestow those "ants of the earth"

And arch-bound as the sinew of bowstrings
Howling as the volley hertz roped
Along the celestial violin
Pluck souls from their bodies
In symphonic prediction

Ascende! On the wings of love's Valkyrie-- in her shining eyes will you greet the stars of the Otherworld!

________


Cleaning hide chunks from Buffalo tusks
There is a stranger, who knocks upon my door
The fire is wide and welcoming,
Borea chides the earthenwork
Outside, the stranger calls
distant through the door.

___________

A last heartsong,
The cup overflown with honey
A facsimile of symmetry
And not distinctly human
There was something to love in that,
Just the simple inclusion
Of all the other animus
Being formed in their conclusions

And following the arrowpoint
Floating by the bolt
What losses there to seek
Beyond a veiled humanity

We strike the fire one last time,
She to travel the mountain passes
Ashen eyes, holding viscous memories solidified

I to gather my quills
My thoughts and brush quickly the embers of love.
Into flame, carried deep into the hearts of the world and explored in violent disassociate
Particles red and hot

Then would Zara Spake again,

"with his eyes on the earth, will he never see but the stars."

It is asking the last drop in the sink
Where it thinks it should be drawn to
A gift to it is knowing
It will one day be whole again

Without thinking, heme seeks life through the energy of blanket air
Without thinking, we give farewell
Last thoughts in our misted halls of mind

I couldn't bear to view the color of blood spilled on stone
In the moonlight, all of it appears dappled black and white

All the good that you swear

It is asking love in the drops on the car
Asking for them to clean ever-dirtying metal
Asking for them to wash sins, wash lacquer from immutability itself

And it will never end.

Finally, that we may be all at once all at once, when the coil is unwound and exhausted and begins to cool
And the corneal fillaments glaze into placid glass marble lakes, reflecting the small spurn of the world they held

That our soul should be upwelled
To the lapping stones of Valhalla, to be arisen by great arms and carried to our tableplace
To jest eternally of the great disgrace...

And woe of our whales, lost long afar
And the men who hunted them incessant
Pleasently warmed and vibrating with the humming mumble of the upper yards,

Worn travellers return to tired halls.





And sing,

"Hei do Yey-- be come what may,
High winter hünde beheld at bay
And Yeh they feed in rare reprieve
On souls of such we will not say.

Hei do lum-- what will be done,
What valor hark thy martyrdom
Upon thine breaths and storied crests
Upon thy tomb, thy charter won

Hei do ill, ye sum thy will
To heed thy lands upon the hill
Down back from whence thy kingdom lent
The battle-horn, heard she so shrill"

And I confessed,

"HEI DO LAI, TO WHICH I CRY,
MY CITY SLEEPS BELOW THE SKIES
AND DOES NOT SEEK TO SEE MY FEET,
OR EVERMORE AFFIX MY EYES."

Ice caps
Mushrooms with frost on their mycelium
The ceiling of the earth tearing,
Dropping liquid ****** to give quick interest

Outside the planets twirl and explode from small rocks
Impact like pebbles on a great salt lake
The ripples of death create movement
Momentous Momentum

Violative but oh so real
Not too kind but who needs to be
Break down walls and streets and building facades
Say hey, bullets of mind should try again,
Hit something new, slit the hole of older jeans

Plop your tetrapedes between the planet matter and look good for once
Clean unwashed blue and painful on the junk


These favorites are just irises, asking to see themselves selfish and alone
Always alone in the body of god
Always a single cell in the larger overall
Pull-ups and getting down to work
Unsheathed from sleeves and lost in only the most bare of skins

Speaking to the lovers of Horus, seeking sunlight between the zippers of their minds

Rings out the bells, love, death, destruct
All the conscious constructions of the mind

Always of the mind

Never in divine

The arrival of senselessness
Is a great shadow over the earth,
a cooling cloud in the summer
causation of looking up--

Gift-givers wander the slopes and with packets of thought,
They run their fingers along the stones and the trees and the fields
Grassy,
Following the trails of clouds wandering just as inconsequent
Leaving tears as rain on the steppes and letting them drain into the deathly floors
asking them to give the ability for new things to drink
This is the true Holy Water


And a patchwork soul seeks, fixated,
answers to the crackled nature of their vessel
Running into the same stone of them, cancerous
soon left to sands and dust
Ozymandias

The blades of leaves rattle a sad salute
Their ragged branches sheathed xylem, a perfect skyscraper design
Preventing edema of the like kind

Show to me that this place in not but the momentary awareness of light, a stopping point in the infinite variation

To locate oneself in the rapid raveling of everything into one great big
Sorrowful tear, running from the eternal blackness of the night
that holds noting but the absence of itself.