A thousand years

Oh a thousand, thousand years

You are still

The rich heir of all my tears

Who? Who? Who is it?

That claims a great righteousness

Greater than any other

Who force a bitter love

In deception of their unwarranted claim

That makes the air seethe with murmurings

Of difference and love is left in fragmentation

Who tell me, who? who is it?

That has a greater righteousness

Than righteousness itself, tell me please

Whose claim lies in hate and bitterest gall

Against an enormous part of the human existence

Who, who are these people whose perpetual

Inarticualtion is a violation of love

And make mockery of their claim

Who? who are they? let their stone hearts bleed

At last, at last, at last!

I have found it

A dissecting table

That has upon it

An umbrella and a typewriter

And some ink stains

That have dried upon

A tongue

Thank you Isidore

I dream only beautiful nightmares where black flowers ******

With the arrival of always and grow everywhere

Lifting aloft their jet colored leaves to a blue and purple sun

Which leaves me fraught with glorious purpose

Still I am nothing much, just something different

……..I hear beleaguered colors…live the words of yet unsaid…..see the ***** that lingers upon the back road… with its uneven tread…. and left black ink to paper pose…. that mingles in my mind…..and hear a chant of lullabies…. and in this light of darkness find…. the scattering letters of the globe and place them with a stroke upon the parchment in my palm….. then know for certain who I am not and thus know who I am…….

Yes I go, yes go to seek a Great Apocalypse

One that will unravel the complex elaboration of difference

To articulate a perpetual aesthetic with violated codes

Of the experience of illusions of temporal stimulus

That are beyond all compass and soothe a fragmentation

Oh Great Apocalypse of beauty whose deception finds strategies

For youthful prodigality and binds me to your inarticulation

An embodiment of beleaguered and charmed fictions

Whose artifice is the governance of generous impulses

As such sway about me with a harmony of moral disquiet

Inadequate in description of the qualities of their oppression

Yet oh great apocalypse there is a plausible generosity

In these pale assumptions of impatience which carry

The obligations of a universally shared human existence

Compelling a projection of charged issues on competing claims

For the enigmatic logic of life

Yes Great Apocalypse now I understand all thought

From Everywhere and for Always

I missed your drawings

Magic charcoal of beauty

Sense of line and charismatic charm

Perfection of form with tenebrous light

Like segregated sunshine, a codex in Black