She feels no confusion
with her lips against his eye.
Eyes blue as a
deep mountain lake.
She senses comfort
resting across her
chest, like the first time
her cheek touched his
bicep when they walked
enmeshed.
Now feels so warm,
soft on her mind
for fear has
fallen to the trail.
Renewal of trust
reborn fills her heart.

In my more youthful past
in that memory as thought now rising
a philosopher in my reading
used a wax impression to gain
understanding of thought formation..
Which philosopher?
The name has escaped
a coming and going as
impermanent thoughts come and go..
I am awaiting a re-qcquaintance..
But let us proceed..
Did that philosopher ask about the wax?
Might he have said:  You are the wax
out of which your thought takes form..
Wax as a faithful metaphor
for Consciousness..our true Self..
Thoughts arising as small self
and projecting a world..
Oneness so speaks...*

(if you know that philosopher,
I would be indebted if...}

deep in the warren
they feel safe from the treachery
of my carnivorous calling

but I can use the shovel,
that terrible tool of modernity--after all,
'tis a favorite of grave diggers

a few scoops in the dank soil
and the rabbits are vulnerable to my attack:
a simple bashing of twitching skulls

my hands driven by a hunger
they satisfy with grasses in summer,
twigs, roots in winter

I wish my needs were so meager
my appetite so abstemious--but I crave
blood fresh flesh, torn from the bone

without their sacrifice, I must seek
bigger beasts, long dead, cellophane sealed
and put on ****** display

or become a vegan and ground great grains,
boil lazy legumes, and feign a higher nobility
in what I eat and excrete

Sylvie, I am alone here
doing nothing, except
thinking about you,
in a meditative trance.

It's a beautiful feeling Sylvie
strange, I don't miss you,even!
I imagine you as an awakening  flower
of changing colors and petals
You are in a whirl of realization.

Then a lone tree you are,
near a vast,waveless  lake
what an intriguing  koan,
to churn my inner sea.

You're nowa drifting white cloud
all through the kaleidoscopic shifts
I forget to think,what would I be
in relation with your whims,spectacular


Beyond apparitions, I search for  meaning
that  eludes, as it is fathomless

I hear the song of the lonely star, so near
and realize,"I am the light of the burning star"

Sylvie, I can't remember
neither you nor me exactly
or the distant star that sings
a song in the tunes of light years


You were from the forest, Sylvie
I used to be the mountain wind
that once caressed the forest trees.
Sylvie, we are one; the imagination
of the waves of light, beyond time.

I wonder
how our great creator
built a vessel
strong enough
to contain my soul?

Each day my spirit fights
against my skin with violent
jolts as a young bird
seeking exit from a cage.

Unfettered psyche
free from me
bounces among clouds
rolls through deserts,
climbs volcanic ridges
migrates with birds in flight.

Curious instincts guide
my vital force inside and out
like honey bees
scour zinnias in full bloom.

Dare I release my spirit today?

two of them came in from the night
into the neon light of a 7-11, where they found her
behind the counter, guarding  
the register's cash

with her life
which they took, because, after her trembling hand
handed them $138, one of them, "just freaked"
when he saw her face

and then shot her, in her throat,
and again between two holy *******,
after she landed on the linoleum floor,
12 feet 3 inches from the door

through which they returned to the night,
though only long enough to find the Whataburger
exactly one mad mile away, where they stopped
because the shooter was hungry

he ordered a number one, with cheese
but his accomplice had no appetite--he asked
for coffee, black, and used coins (not stolen)
he had to pay

when they confessed to the killing
even the accomplice found it chilling, the shooter
could eat red flesh and fresh hot fries, while scalding coffee
was all his partner could abide