Wild child space travel gypsy
       drunk    on     the cosmos
     churning a sensual pattern--
             melting         suns
with a carefree wink
as stars pour into her eyes
like a garnet shiraz
       spiraling
              in    tidal   waves
splashing in a crystal wine glass
     caressing
              her white light lips.

Planets dip and dangle around her hips
as the weight of the nebulous nectar whispers
                                       lullabies to her eyes
         as her incandescent            hair contours
    to copious glistening constellations  
rippling across her tired body
                 like ice dripping on a warm chest
vibrating    indigo       moonlight         jazz
enrapturing millions with her simple act of symphonic yawning
as the dusk light dawning over faces
embraces souls stirring--
her purring hip cat dreams
leave people like us with mouths agape
as her voluptuousness nape hushes
us with a supernova explosion of peace
oscillating between
each of our spirits.

I was listening to Santana
at Woodstock playing Soul Sacrifice
you know the
young drummer and Carlos so bangin' it
and this **** assed kitten climbed in my lap
watched intently
like he knew this was so good
he watched every second
waved his tail in rhythm
with Carlos and his band.
I liked this cat before
but now I love him.

Recycled noise
eyes litter the floor
Consciousness murmurs day by day
We don't know where home is and
we're okay with that
It'll be okay
Our feet are cold
Our body awake
Our mind rested and ready to lapse into memory waves
Signs of anchored wisdom and prophecy
A black screen of mindfulness on my hands
blue shells clatter to the floor
The heat of the weapon warms my feet
We aren't tired, are we?
Our heads are too heavy
We risk stretching our legs
And the blood rushes back in
We're tempted to bathe
We're tempted to relay our dreams
It is hard to deny these
Yet it isn't
Our writing becomes large when we have this joy
we have no struggle
no shortage of peace

This evening, with the wind
of my curtains breathing, I listen for night birds
watch the room grow pale
the finality of day, a nightly ritual
how skies reconstruct themselves over again
twinkle and murmur of stars
cynosure of all planets, even unseen
clouds like amnesia, hide things
our earthbound slipping away
of days lost irretrievable

(THIS is the symbol)

To become efficient enough
to reduce meaning into a single symbol,
a sign within a sign
(meta-symbolism).

Making words into movement
intuited further
as just breathing
and know what is
being represented.

Seamless meaning/thing connection.

***** our fingers, we do. on the porcelain and the rampions.
we are twisted into crapes, the shape of which
are halcyon, though we refrain from them.
We are ' something else '.
the salad is the farce and the painting; yes !
the gruel and the cinders in the mock turtle soup
of our living quince and the meddling
of our every-ness.

clink our eyelids. we do. on the lamp-stand in the Hampton's
we are gifted and innate. the grey twitch
accounts for them bones we contain from sin.
We are " something felt "
the ballad is the Art and the Nothing;
yes ...
the cruel, is the mender, in our lost little group
of unseasoned  heckling and
our Winter's
truth,

and absinthe.

But there's Something Else.
and Nothing

Less....

than Atlas.