Not by the cerebral unease
of paradox, shadows agreeing
to disagree (knowing they
are more substantial than things).
Not by the world being taken
away from those who must
observe days.
Not by the incapacity for a
fitting end to those observing
days...do I state, the time is short...
yet no unit shall have its fill of you.


Konstantinos Mark

I Am the burning candle of my
own vigil.
The night of my ignorance is
long...though hope lie beyond
me, I Am not beyond it.
My center is perfect, my
circumference is boundless
freedom.
What needs knowing shall be
known, what needs forgetting
shall be forgotten...there is
absolutely no hurry.
There's no time to be bidden,
only this timeless vigil burning
in degrees of clarity.

Gift me your exquisite arrival times...
your comings and goings into your own--
and I will instinctively pour what I contain.
What I kept for myself...will consider itself
free, and so...begin to disappear on sight.
We could make this life a common affair...
couple in color till we bore through the canvas.
We've already gone where no man or woman
have gone before--as space is a matter of being
unique unto us...yet not.
The space between our uniqueness and
likeness...is the ineffable space that the infinite
gave chase to.
It is true...we will die misunderstood, please
don't misunderstand.

Leaving off where other things
begin...seems to insure a
re-invitation to that leaving
off.
Space wearing itself...relishing
in what forgot to check itself.

There's something to be unsaid
of becoming a nonevent...where
the Truth be told by light's third
person.

In the belly of burden,
flesh was held by
flesh.
Life drew life...as
that which hungers herself,
nourishes another hunger.
More full than this, there
is not...more empty than
this, there is not.
As the draw deepens...
hunger Knows what it
belabors.

A flower opens its head
amid a pilgrimaging fire...
one-pointed in color, alone
knowing what it means.
Vibrating the life of that color
unbrokenly--a vow perfectly kept.
Our earth's heart strewing her
joyous criers...something an
extraterrestrial would anoint its
forehead-space with.

No signs for star-crossing in the
dead of galactic night...beings
dream drawing their faces.
Colors change freely to arrive at
their God...resonate to place the
face.
As if the Seer is seen, in love with
what is to be itself...color, colored...
face, faced...a being beholds a
shooting star in the dead of galactic
night.
Animal-skin-centuries hunted by
Light.

I spoke as clear as I could...
to space-out the need for
words--trusting the God
of my God shall understand
perfectly.
...My potential mouthfuls got
the best of me...and what they
did with me became silence.

We "ground" by focusing
on breath...
neglecting to realize
the mind thinks
it understands
a single breath.
Whose genius it grew
out of.

The Infinite Dressing Room...
dresses the finite only.
As what changes does so
within the Changeless.

Golden-canopied fires of
a due sun's rising...
know which veils must
part as eyelids.
A light brought out
by light beyond fire's
intemperance...places the
dreamer's dream upon that
very effulgent happening.