Upon the path , flows through the forest

I'll walk a ways by river's way

Below the mountains
that run ahead

I've lost all my now
I had to say

(The songbirds do it better ayway)

Yellow butterflies ignite the sky

While a bald eagle gives the ole' eagle eye

The sun clothes me
in threads of finer gold

Not too ostentatious , not too bold

The warmth soothes my bones and heart

Telling the obstinate mumurations to soon depart

The most beautiful color
is sky blue

And the color of love emanating
from the smile of you

falling
unfading
timeless
towards paradise

fingertips streaming
spirals of howling light

beyond the speed of ecstasy
flying blind

knowing unseen
the unbroken strand
that binds two
through boundless halls
of celestial wonder

skimming across astral seas
split the surface
peel back the facade
plunge beyond the deep

spread your wings
for me

envelope me

ride the cresting wave
rushing inside of you
through my tantric eye

we coruscate
and transmute
constantly becoming

infinitely and intricately
being

converged

Full fathom five thy father lies
of his bones are coral made
those are pearls that are his eyes
nothing of him that doth fade
but doth suffer a sea-change
into something rich and strange
Shakespeare, The Tempest, Act I, Scene ii


I was a blue baby.
Umbilical noose drawn so close,
a rope of blood. The starving air
never loved me.

Now my father is air,
all of them are in the graves
of the air, the transparencies.
I can only claw at the silence.

Dolmens of rain collapse
in the kitchen. Black coral rises up
out of the fridge, out of the cabinetry,
out of the thickening lung-mass.

I am ever that blue baby,
leasing breath from a sterile hand,
my hair silvered over like a frost -
my tattoos gathered like a frightened flock.

Sea-changes are coming.
My last thoughts today, that coruscate
from the obelisk of my spine, are of the woman
who slurred my atoms so carelessly.

“Spirit
is Life
It flows thru
the death of me
endlessly
like a river
unafraid
of becoming
the sea”
-Gregory Corso

A hundred thousand red laps
from one midnight to the next:

the valve clutches and clasps
at wet clapping truths

but they slip away like silk scraps
in the black gap breeze.

The heart is no throne, but wrapped
gnarl - the abandoned winter's nest,

denuded strakes of burlap strap
curved and curled into the branch fork,

disguising the lacuna and the lapse.
Does the river gladly pass into the sea?

Or does the sea sip it down, easy as a nightcap
with chill willow and spruce,

another blue vein-line snuffed on a map,
another salt stone silting an unseen reef?

living right
conserving reason
for the faith that is in me.
Life's trials are trials, not finals.
- oh dare me say
I know there is no hell, hubris?, nay,
personal experience has not given the lie,
survived through the common use of faith,
stretched to cover reality,
up to very recently,
when you -just occurred as next reader of this///
-
and I know my prayers are answered,
when I make up your mind,
hook it on an answer to find,
make up your mind
who won,
make up your mind
who won,

when Jesus, the man,
He done what he done
- or he lied, ask yourself
- if it were me, would I build a hell?
that's the chorus, c'mon sing along
when Jesus, the man, He done what he done

Hear me knock, my knock sounds true, they say
my sheep all know my voice,
and here come see I tell you true,
in the core of my house, at home
I occupy all my time.'
Ever learning is certainly better than hell.
Ever proving, by that,
ever loving curios urge to know the whole,
truth I was led to swear to tell allegiantly.

Yes, Luther was a liar, as all who claimed
Jesus invented cathedrals, to tear down in 3 days.

I know there is no hell,
and I know prayers are answered,
if you make up this mind so you know who won,

when Jesus, He done what he done

and the musing falsetto castratos
continue to humm,
He done what he done
you know
it coulda been different
and never coulda been as good as now.
it coulda been different
and never coulda been as good as now.
some how
owowowowowowo it echoes ever after,

did you ring hell's bells and laugh at the rubies,
more precious than gold,

as water in the desert,
to the sons of the pawns.

move them into a place
of loose adjustment

random offerings

Long days, short nights
Green trees, blue skies
Bird song and butterflies.

It’s the silence
that commands the dialogue,
the lull that weighs
bitter and heavy
upon the tongue…
And the darkness,
that hoards every cadence,
reason and rhyme.

Within its robe of

                                    black.