I feel like I’m floating
This must be a dream
My vision is cloudy
Light headed it seems

Euphoria electrifies my body
It’s too good to be real
****** memories of you
Which I chose to conceal

A warm sensation slips over me
As blood rushes out my veins
It won’t be long now
The absence of pain

Grits of sand against a weathered face

Beyond the gallows red sun fades away

You shall be forgiven

But not today

Now soon the hills and days go green in flowering fields
sweet will sing, black red wings amidst the grassy reeds
silent lily pond no more to keep winter's secrets in
lotus blossom opens your eyes
the center, your heart
revealed

What light miracles,
Intrinsic grace— birds in flight,
Angels among us.

If I wrote in rhyme,
with satisfying time,
would you like it?

Does it comfort you
seeing stanzas of two,

And is it pleasing
without any meaning?

Do you mind it?

And if I were to stumble
on my own words and
my thoughts crumble
beneath the structure

of beautiful nothingness
and regress

to complexity that resembles more
the disjointed thoughts of our souls
the pain and ugly in our hearts
the way we might actually speak (gasp!)
and think
and hope
and hurt
--is that not beautiful enough
for your poetic sensibilities?

If not, I understand
and will no longer clash
my words like waves that crash
on the unforgiving sand.

You may find much to see,
but this poem means nothing to me.

energy surging,
             heat begetting heat
expands to dark expanse to cool and brew what slow restocking weight
with white supernal flare between
around an equipoise of center you imagined as you write
and what non-being-being residing in beneath the deep?
inspired by the question-thought embracing
death beyond what death to value life a blissful state
in even darkest reaches found
the pain a sundered gate of joy you capture with poetic greeting ploy,
that coin is split to join opposing worlds
as when blind Shiva blinded world
unbridled lust arrayed from hut to hut
obliging them his ***** to rip
but then extinguishing their rant
to foster pleading for the dance again
collecting yoga as viyoga
                               in samanvaya chiaroscuro maya-vidya
or adept on cosmic player focus
hate-trancendent into vast eternal love
which even Luke (14:26) dropped lovely clue to
un conditioned by contingent fondness
for what myth of real  play
we stage together evermore
to frolic in the uncut hair of graves
                                                          ­                                                          (greene­st grass to know what past)
whose leavings are for future sunrise lush to celebrate another self envisioned
in another set of singing eyes
the literal, empty, formless mien
a synthesized good-bye recursion rush













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