i travel the lexicon of bulbs
and petals and visible light
backward and forward
like a monorail of time.
the conductor is naked exposure,
an amorphous functioning of human body l
only peripherally perceptible
so that it mostly looks like a humanoid, octopus-mantis chimera.

i am the hand, prophetic and terrible.
i am the party, bacchanalic.

touching rare earth minerals
with a vibrantly common approach
i am the poverty of self and other.

take me far from linear modalities
to the temple altar
of concentric, overlapping,
principled
cause and effect.
superposition
my 80something years
so that action/reaction
have no independence.
i want to remember the future and speculate on the past.
i want the present to be the contour
that shines like antipodal moss
between their confused directions.

i am the long androidal night.

christ alive, so am i.
i am otherwise dry compost
like becoming sand far from water
just sand resonating sand.
still the signals of consciousness are there
but far from complex growth or
helpfulness.

a stain, a mold, a t-shirt in a palace.
all things ductile, all things closely resembling hyper athletic celery.

we mirror amplifiers. constant alchemical gain undeniably transmitting unstable, uncertain, postmodern programming.

the devil is real.
existing in things like air conditioning and silicon. moving subtle through maple syrup and backsplash.
the devil is mycelial and plastic;
a beach of wet, burning relief;
a root system of universal, cosmo(logical/politan), terran and mythological cinema.
the devil is a pisces that smells like lemon rinds and rusty door hinges.

we live in a bottle
where we create our own weather.

i angle sufficiently toward the mirror;
the eyes inside scanning the channels for available plasticity.
it’s sound on sound: the amorphous, prismatic urge to wall-climb shrieks like no mouth could.

tricky truth, the mind is a drag queen that uses glue to apply its make-up;
performing to infinite performance,
my dance is your applause.

prophetic mosaic
worlds apart;
fractal platforms, our worship magnetically nomadic, we flux,
spastically waving.
what do we scream for?
“GOD!”
when do we scream?
“NOW!”

like a moth to flame am i to God. i dip myself into the fire and come away as illumination; the contamination of the world ego has melted, i am spirit in form.

world-product: the pink, glacial swoon
that covers paradise like asphalt over bare earth.
gift wrapped, and out to harm,
the unchecked pleasure walks us into compulsion; and we pull out our eyes as an offering to death.
unaware of the tone that calls itself silence, we hypnotically pray that decay might grow to take our neighbors and our children.
—
is what you want what you want?
—
“ask, and you will receive.”
the way has a way to work through us all.

beauty has been created;
and there’s nothing you have to do
to help it out.

invite me into the void,
there where no cold
interrupts no warmth.
pull me into the place
where i cannot perceive,
and therefore, cannot suffer.
there is no glory, nor fear,
no ecstasy
in annihilation.
it seems as though peace cannot live where suffering is not well.
in the void,
where i will not be,
i cannot tell
if it is life or if it is death.

diffuse teeth
growing from the atmosphere
circle vulnerable necks
in calcified beauty.
a prismatic monologue
about symbol, value, and time.
this is not your voice.

human geography is
getting larger;
and yet, i will not ****** you
for a claim to earth.

rest is available
to all.

sense-*******,
crude killer
walking crude waves
with blank authority.
the space is a hard zero
and i am a hard heart.
are you a battery?
it smells like summer rotation,
a lemon squeezed on flower petals.
obnoxious thoughts i’m having,
i watch them as they become my hands.

God, awaken the love in me.
by so doing,
awaken me to presence.
allow me to surrender, to make a constant
offer
of self to other, to you.
devotion is how i clear space, i pray,
allow me devotion,
allow me to awaken
to infinite love.

i am a servant of God,
therefore i am a servant to you.

how beautiful does it get?

the talent of practice;
love is the fruit of awareness
to presence.

the mind does not come to God,
knowledge is not a stairway.

God is a felt experience,
the graceful gift of devotion.

by heart the soul awakens,
LOVE!
ARISE!
it is perfect peace, our harmony.

silence will be kind to you

you have come here to find truth.
it is in others that you find it; for beautiful is the righteous relationship, beautiful is love.

———

ultraviolet amplification speaks of direct memory become the direct now.
we spin the dirt we eat into the silken furnace of chrysalis death.
we are the sun, emitting brilliance in created life.
we are the dust, the subtle hand of GOD has taken dirt and made dwelling.

———

a butterfly is not made from a murdered caterpillar.
the caterpillar offers itself to the highest principle
and receives the grace of wind.
icarus forgot that he was tethered to earth, but the butterfly does not forget time spent as a caterpillar.
like wind, moments have an amorphous form. if we are careful we may find ourselves in the aroma of flight.

the tense hypocrite;
king fool.
solipsistic proselytizer:
border ******,
big definer.
i do not endure.

i bow to hollow birth,
crying out
**** me! **** me! i deny being.
God, do you hear me?
why have you given creation away?
i want life, but not consciousness;
my psalm, i want nothing, but to be.

as a disciple of temptation
i die many painful deaths.
my treasures leave me,
they are capricious.
how could the hand of a ghost
ever grab smoke?

grace is an infinite harvest;
forgiveness is the water, sun, and soil.

i am buckethead; i cannot see the light.
a filter of dirt; the light thru me is darkness.

i am the word
stained by attachment,
a world prism i am.

i wish to be as the full moon to the full sun, but i am no mirror; i am a factory; i create death.

It is never accidental that we find ourselves living and dying.

We do all we can to ignore death. Ever claiming that we don’t belong.

— On the day it can no longer be ignored you will bargain,
bargain in abstraction a bargain that cannot be made.

You are obliged to ink long dried; your name signed with first breath.
There is but one way out; to give up your name, to submit to your destroyer, your creator, your master and maker. Admit you have no victory you can construct.

things have gravity when they stand alone,
but all is cohesive as one.

speak into my thoughts.
guide me along your will.
you are my animator; i am your hands,
your feet.
use me.

the word, which is God,
sees all creation as clean.
guilt is temporal.

it’s like being lifted
from a dream.
you’re here
and all the people you know
are so real
and the space warps around you
and it’s nothing but love.

it’s not uncomfortable.

you’ll never feel like you’re ready,
but it comes
and you’ll know that you’ve been waiting.

—————

you are arms and legs and organs and thought and you are air and fire and water; full, emptied and filled.
God is one, the whole as one.

death and life,
a kiss between
melodrama
and silence.

the lazy king
loses his kingdom
as the chaotic usurper
alerts naked to shame
with the unsaid word,
“i will tell you light from dark.”

the infinite become(s) mortal.

over and again order is flooded
with death b/c pride won’t sleep.
wrath crouches
and awaits the touch of minor suffering,
it is a signal of offense
and offense calls for retribution,
now you ****.

you say you’ve done no wrong.
you express honesty
and fairness.
you have your own scales
and the eyes to match.

abate yourself,
your cup runneth over.
it poisons the dirt.

—

the infinite became mortal
to make the mortal infinite.

the cosmic mountain is on arrival;
in Eden, we forgive.

youth, the persuader
using flesh.

torrid light-sparks
burn the floated eye,
the temptation glowing outer.
it is service glowing to those who
have the eye to see.

this is it: explore like a child,
surrender into humility
your grand, effusive self-sermon.
the story is written on empty paper
and you are not the hand.

be what you are, love yourself as led.

if GOD is absent
there is nothing to find.

this is that: pouring coffee into
a cup w/o any space to fill
and coming to realize that there
is no cup and no coffee and no ***
and no you at all.
you were never a thought, never a spoken word.
you have no parents and they have no parents.
there is no sun
or deep space unknown.
w/o GOD there is nothing and nothing cannot know itself.

i am the grass-lit
deer in the morning
eating
and eating.

I am man
burning myself on a grand plot,
very lost on a lawnmower.
there is dinner at breakfast,
lunch at bed.
I tell the world to bend and become
and I am the one that ends up twisted.

i am the deer;
not seeking, i see.

i drink my coffee w/cocoa and turmeric
and drive a big car to church service.
passing the drug mart
i see a homeless man
and do nothing.

always the dancer, we seek
among the turtle-reeds
for the one and true immutable path.
here is peace in the copper;
a cursive emanation of calming action,
of a love like serving tea
or making bread; a love that gives itself away.

remember yourself not as judge, but as an awe-struck lover of now
curious for the magic of all the movement, patient
and kind, freely giving what you get.

focus drips over
a too fast heart rate
as i live
with too many layers on;
i am not barefoot,
i am hardly breathing.

where, where, where/within, within, within.
i shine an “oh-my”
on my lovely wife
and she goes to GOD and prays for me,
we love each other, she prays for our child.

i am too old to be selfish.
not a moon, not far away.
i am here
sight-grace burning the veil of the roles i cherish.

i am the world, i do not need it.
i have been given the greatest gift.

there is a man in the garden
who prays while we sleep.
hypostatic growth
in the heart, analog
of eden;
eve and adam and the luminaries
took residence in the void.
in the beginning,
before nostrils
or distinction
there was a man
in the garden
that prayed while we slept.

steamed broccoli
leaks toward heaven
in a mouth
of scant highway excursions

horrid, hard boiled mantle bangers
invoke across the insta-wave
loud, loud
lathe induced labor pangs

big and falling
and told no often,
"i am not here, i shut my eyes.
i am now here, i come to listen."

the heathen code  
sold to be used on gourmet motherboards
is soul to spirit in man as animal on earth
making slowly its way through the rush

the everywhere bounce
against the fringe membrane is the devil
asking you if you desire to keep yourself.

to accept our end as a rescue
is to break upon the skull a diamond
of GOD
and transport the soul
to the triune godhead.
death is every moment:
finding YHWH
is fresh birth.

longing
and foresight
arc over us,
a rainbow barking o body, o body
as the ground swells with the pregnancy of god.

i am on four windows of weeping horizons.

the entry
is plastic
and strung on loose thoughts
of salvation come yesterday.
the entry
is water
and dope,
marvelous bug eyes under
a cemented glass brain.
the entry is warm jelly
and allergen,
dim lights become strong.

the entry is waiting
and it is beautiful.

pumpkin guts on your belly;
a song for your sore throat,
i sit at the cross
and pray
for hot towels
and affection.

no judgement----
------zero stone balance
GOD blesses the blessings
and i pray for praises abundant.

i watch the world
with eye, hand and heart.

and love;
it comes
watching us.

boxes of book
and television
and face
as face
to equal grey
touch on
jovial me
and outline leaf and branch
on the cloud purple
stereobouncing
a renunciation
of human man
dissolved into rain.  

i am goo
and strapping, rigid tendon
as mud to mud
to mud and midday musk

as sand
on the long river
of beatific love
i am taught
how to howl
and when to look deeply;
i am blessed
because i am here.

in east delano
with all the mirrors;
i am bohemian boy
canoeing trash river,
stapled to the floor
and gunning bigger skies.

serpent belly,
i know the earth
and wednesday to wednesday
there is press
of fern and leopard
and fermentation and sloshing
concussion.

i see brick
and black
right now.
i see pattern
and small print.

could you open your mouth;
as to pour out the rain?

lobster butter
love
and a dream, an apple
to kiss.

a peach
and a pumpkin
a heartkindness hand,
warm jelly pupils
and a thin gold chain.

a hollow head,
a full heart;
today
I am clay
and tangerine.

honey-melt
on toast
over veggies.

it's an aromatic morning
when the coffee
meets the open window
and the pan fry pop
makes steam engines
like little birds.

the wood under my feet;
spices hang
and satiate the need
to be elsewhere,
the morning here is a warm purple
around me.

1:53
in a circle
and we could be blue;
as a point of posture
we are DEFINITELY
on the carpet.  

and i'm not sure of the spelling
but i want you to work me baby.

call me the sands;
we're a statement away
from becoming the sun.

my heart grows.

voluptuous;
i take shelter
in cast iron alchemy,
a place where GOD
becomes familiar
and i become unclothed.

as line
and white space
and a pair of pink, pink lips
would have me speak
i speak
and say there is magic
in the salmon;
magic mighty enough to fight the bear.

and i taste peace
in the cask
where water sits as spirit,
waiting to flood over the room
like does light through the window
from the post
in the street.  

i take my repose
in a woman
that can fill my mouth
with the whole calendar
and can fill my flesh
with the feeling of home.

I'm a cup
of something green.
You have lips
that are smothered in that green
and you wear my tall hat.

Long ropes of rhododendron
are a different green where I hide.

I have a big, round nose
on a big, round face.
You have a slender, angled nose
on a slender, angled face.
I have a tall head
and no shoes.
You have no shoes either.

You're a cup of something else;
too full.
You spill on my chest
and I kiss your lips
to get back some of the green
that you got from me.

The whole thing
lives between you
and your toes;
I lick you
to see the world again.

damsel of string;
wait-listing
long tables
full of leftover dribble.

guard of course time;
hamstrung
between yellow and gold
between black and fuscia.

founder of the pulp;
tear your ears off
and grind them into a paste
of vibration and alien blood.

mother of the mirror;
don't look at us.

I am the coyote
with no response,
resting on the light
that emanates
as self  
become whole.
Essence of energy,
vibrate together.

wash board scrub down
in a porcelain tub
off the path of Cornville, AZ

hot summer juniper
makes
dry skin from bone
sand red

their delirious diamond
worships the void
through the garden sun

ready to see beneath
the whispering urge
behind the gorgeous
smear
of chant
& vision & want

lust madly

I go light and lazy
for the drooling moon

panspermatic
textile view.
liberated decor
dances as a shake
as if real slow
and to make a wave to the curb;
a greeting.

hyperborne
and sensitive to touch,
a pouncing rubber headache
forms mush out of rain.
many people
strike accords
and many people
block the act,
but I'm certain
entropy will prevail.

ion spaciousness
between
earth and craggling, ethereal,
celestial joy.
volition celebrates
in open channels,
growing as the vine.

everybody is big...
and demure;
curtailed by saturation
and demand.

a quilt warms the vitals
and oatmeal manufactures bulk;
we are made of metal, mineral,
and an unsure sense of stability
known as wishful thinking.

homily of oxidation
elucidate our greatest trust:
mycelium, neurology;
we are again,
and again.

oil spilled crucifixion
the prerequisite to ablution
is dirt and sweat
and swearing and ignorance

i am no prognosticator
i am no steel or precious metal
i am no full part in a full machine

o fulcrum in furious preordained
stability
o fulcrum as pixel
i pray for similar foundation
i am no fanatic
no severed-arm mystic

o fulcrum
in the morning
i book keep
at night i dream
o fulcrum of instantiation
i pray for integrity

make me solid once more